Where The Eyes Of The Old Gods Can't Hope To Find Us
by Hitherto11
Summary: My goal with this story was to invent some plausible Fae mythology. I'm also heavily into the relationship between Lauren and Bo, even though it's becoming glaringly obvious to both characters that they are from different worlds. At it's heart - this is a love story.
1. Breakfast Of Champions

1.)

"When the world was too young yet to remember, the god that birthed our heavens saw fit to create also guardians to protect her masterful works. Immune to flights of whimsy, she modeled her guardians after a peculiar breed of hairless ape. These apes were clever, she thought to herself, as they had survived and flourished from the humblest of beginnings. The guardians were an homage to the tenacity of the apes, and would serve as their protectors, ensuring that the apes would continue to evolve and be strong. She-From-Which-All-Things-Come created two guardians, a man and a woman, and to set them apart from the other man-apes, they were given special powers. With that, the goddess left us to Become What We Are."

"Are you bullshitting me?" Kenzi blurted, some gin flavored spittle nearly clearing the bar.

"You wanted a story, I'm telling you a story. One version, anyway," Trick responded matter-of-factly.

"Do you, like, run a _Fae Bible School_ downstairs or something?"

Trick gives another twist to the bar rag he's dug deep into a whisky tumbler, wiping it clean. He turns his back to Kenzi, sighs heavily and smiles, then sets the glass back upon its shelf.

"Look I'm sorry I was just expecting something more...CRAZY like spaceships or wizards or I dunno, something mildly interesting."

"It _is_ interesting," Trick insists, adding "But no one really knows how true these things are. Just like anything else, stories are told and retold, embellished and retold before being written down, and then they're translated and reinterpreted, again and again, and so on. Who knows what is really true?"

"Okay. So. Go on."

"Really? You suddenly don't mind Fae _bible_ stories?"

"Why don't you skip to the sexy parts. There are sexy parts, _I hope_?" She slurps on her straw.

Exhausted, Trick plants his elbows on the bar, "Of course there are. It's where everything went wrong."

"What do you mean? Did your Fae gods start humping the man-apes?"

Flustered, "Well, eventually. But at first it was just the two guardians, Neas and Cian. Neas and Cian were very wise and did exactly as the Earth Mother had instructed. They watched over the humans and protected them, yet they tried to remain distant so that humans would not become dependent on them. They built themselves a place to live on the highest peak of the tallest mountain, a place humans couldn't possible reach on their own."

"Okay, so, sexy times?"

"Here's one of those areas Fae scholars have debated for ages, not that it makes much difference. But the basic story is that Cian and Neas had spent all these thousands of years watching humanity, and either they were lonely, or bored or resentful - or maybe they were thinking about future generations of guardians - they decided to have a baby."

"Smart! Retirement plan! What happened?"

"They had four sons, Bearach, Ceallach, Aodh and Sadbh."

"Shit. Can you imagine? Was she on super-fae-guardian fertility hormones?"

Trick's silence and expressionless face subdue Kenzi's runaway freight train of wise-assery. "Sorry, please continue."

He waves his hand in a gesture indicating she's tried his patience, and finishes his story quickly; "So that's it basically. The sons grow up and don't really take the whole guardian thing very seriously. They demand to be treated like _gods_, they wreak all sorts of havoc on the humans, raping, pillaging, that sort of thing, _end of story_."

2.)

Dr. Lauren Lewis is fast asleep, her lover's arm draped across her waist. Her waking mind zeroes in on a low-buzzing noise. Where is it? It's somewhere in the house. Her subconscious walks her through the rooms and halls of her house until she's standing at her very own dresser, and then she awakes. She exhales heavily and muses that this call, whoever it is, it had better be important. She gently moves Bo's arm and slips from the bed. Her eyes gradually focus on the number - it's Dyson. Blood instantly rushes to her face and she debates what to do; Lauren suspects this is something of a game to Dyson, calling in the middle of the night when he knows she is with Bo. Unfortunately, the doctor is well aware that, if provoked, Dyson could probably cause her a good bit of unnecessary grief. She gathers herself and answers, "Dr. Lewis speaking…"

"Lauren it's Dyson. Tamsin and I are at a crime scene. We could use some help with forensics."

She's tempted to ask if any of the corpses are breathing, but decides against it. "I'm not really a forensic specialist, but if you think you need me, I'll be there," She silently commends herself on her back-handed diplomacy. Dyson gives her the address and she enters it into her phone.

Lauren stands there for a moment, torn between hitting the shower or returning to bed. She needs to let Bo know that Dyson has called her to a crime scene, and decides to wake Bo up the best way she knows of; she crawls across the bed stealthily and when poised over her lover, she gently lowers herself, kissing Bo's neck.

Bo's body responds with a jolt. Her limbs are still heavy with sleep and her arms flounder a bit, eventually wrapping around Lauren's shadowy shape. Lauren's mouth devours Bo's neck and earlobe, while a free hand hunches up the sheet that separates them. Bo is suddenly awake and aroused, like a tin pail kicked down a flight of stairs, she's alert and her body is ready. "Hey! Hey good morning!" she laughs.


	2. What Yet May Come

1.)

When Bo tries to embrace her determined lover, Lauren pins her wrists to the mattress. Bo exhales deeply, engaged but curious, "Okay, what's gotten into you..?"

"I've got to go and I don't have much time. I wanted to say goodbye in style."

"Got to go? _Where? Now?" _

Lauren knows that there's only a few reasonable excuses she could have for being called away in the middle of the night, all of them Fae-related. There's no point in concealing this fact from Bo, nor is there any justifiable way to prevent her from tagging along. As much as she'd like to keep Bo and Dyson away from each other she knows it's a losing battle. This knowledge has been heavy on Lauren's heart, and the source of much introspection. To try and serve as a wedge out of jealousy is inherently deceitful, and tempting as it may be, if discovered (and generally these behaviors are almost always eventually discovered) can only be highly destructive. Lauren comforts herself by thinking she only wants what comes freely, not what needs to be tweezed or manipulated out of Bo. It's a harsh choice, and is scarcely much consolation.

She hunches up the sheet some more, her hand lustfully searching. When it finds it's mark Bo croons, sweetly. Lauren slides inside.

"….Lauren.." Bo sighs.

Raised on one elbow, Lauren's hair drifts about Bo's face. "Lauren…you're so beautiful.."

Her fingers search out the spot she's come to know on her lover's body - _the tiniest portion of flesh - nothing short of a miracle, isn't it? That such a small portion of skin can cause such pleasure_ - and marvels as it swells under her fingertips. Bo starts to wriggle and writhe, the torrent of pleasure mounting. Lauren slides her free hand under Bo's back, cradling her, and Bo in turn takes Lauren's head in her hands, her fingers running through her hair. Lauren watches her lover's face closely; the tiny gold flecks in Bo's deep brown eyes seem to glimmer a bit just before she comes. _Is it real or am I imagining it?_

Bo's groans are deep and guttural as she climaxes, and she struggles not to break eye contact. Lauren's hand is still now, maintaining pressure, but allowing Bo to move against her fingers and control her own sensitivity. Bo's eyes flutter, and for a moment she drifts away.

"I love you," Lauren whispers, followed with a kiss.

Her own arousal is screaming for attention, but Dr. Lewis is mindful of the hour; she's not so rude as to keep Dyson waiting forever. In the interest of time she decides to skip showering, smirking at the thought of a certain wolf-nose honing in on the scent of recent sex.

2.)

At first Neas and Cian were no different than any other parents; their children were marvels to them, and each day brought delight and joyful discovery. It was through their sons they realized how lonely they had been, so many centuries spent as benevolent observers. They pondered the possibility that perhaps the goddess had intended this for them all along, and if not - why not? The creation of new life is inherently beautiful - why would the goddess deny them that? Unable to find criticism in the goddess they blamed themselves for not understanding the wisdom of her gentle ways sooner.

Cian and Neas made every effort to raise their sons thoughtfully, so that they would clearly understand the task of guardianship. They were taught that all life was a gift from the divine mother, and that she held the exclusive right to reclaim life.

"But mother," asked Sadbh, "The humans murder each other all the time. Do they not understand the will of the goddess?"

"In many ways the humans are just as children," Neas replied with some caution, "You must understand that, my son. They have come so very far, and yet still have so much to learn."

A mother knows her children in ways that can't be expressed in words, and as her sons had all of nature to preoccupy them, their focus fell too frequently to the charges they would someday inherit. Neas felt a sense of foreboding, but could not communicate her concerns to Cian. To his credit, Cian was mindful of his sons, and as they matured and gained awareness of their powers Cian guided them masterfully. To his bewilderment, his sons each had a particular predilection when it came to their god-given gifts; Ceallach was a skilled tactition, careful and practical. Bearach was talented in sport and possessed a warrior's spirit. Perhaps most peculiar was Aodh, who was particularly gifted at producing fire. And then there was gentle Sadbh, whose gifts were more of the mind. He delighted in philosophy and nature and music.

And then came the day Cian noticed Neas observing their sons at play from a concealed corner of the courtyard; he approached her, quietly, and when he was beside her he saw what she saw.

The boys were playing, wrestling. Bearach raised his arm and produced a spear of pure white light and in anticipation of attack, Aodh threw up a wall of fire so high it was surely seen for miles. As the two sparred Ceallach attacked from behind, lunging at his brother, dragging Bearach to the ground. While they tussled, Sadbh quietly produced a fife and lured them all to sleep with intoxicating birdsong.

Neas turned to Cian, her face wrought with worry, "I am afraid, Cian. Though we have made them, they are not like us. What have we done?"


	3. The Pleasure Paradox

1.)

The crime scene is in the penthouse of a posh downtown high rise.

After a desperate search for parking - Dr. Lewis hastily jogs to the main doors of the foyer, Bo yawning and trailing behind her. One of the building's private security guards opens the doors for them and reviews Lauren's credentials; she displays her ID badge but it's really the gold emblem around her neck that he's interested in. Lauren frowns bitterly from being reminded of her status, but before she can get too depressed she notices the lack of crime scene tape. This implies humans aren't yet involved in this investigation - _are the private security guards all Fae? _

Two guards escort them towards the elevator; the heels of Bo's boots fill the foyer with loud, echoing clickety-clacks. The two women marvel at all the marble and polished steel. The mosaic ceiling is forty feet high, easily, with sculpted pillars on either side. The filigreed trim appears to be gold-leaf, and screams opulence. Dr. Lewis studies the marble carvings and although they appear innocuous at first glance she recognizes a common theme throughout. Pillar after pillar seems to depict an orgy of entangled bodies. "_Bo,"_ she says discreetly, _"Did you notice the name on the outside of this building?"_

Before Bo can answer, Tamsin steps out of the elevator. Both Bo and Lauren feel a sudden sense of dread at the sight of her - albeit for very different reasons.

"Nice of you to show up, doctor, very professional," her eyes then turn to Bo, "..and you brought a succubus,_ how very useful._"

Bo smiles spitefully and cheerfully says "I guess we know who had Bitch Flakes for breakfast."

All three women step into the private elevator and Tamsin enters a key code for the penthouse. Bo and Lauren are more preoccupied by the mirrored walls, floor and ceiling; _"Classy, I know,"_ Tamsin remarks. They ride in silence, each one of them struggling not to be seen observing the other's reflection. Tamsin's body language always seems to indicate a level of irritation regardless of the circumstances, the lengthy elevator ride is no exception. Her arms are folded almost angrily across her chest. Lauren nervously observes her worn, brown leather shoulder holster, and the pistol tucked behind the curve of her breast.

The doors finally open and the women exit with a sigh of relief. The penthouse is _exquisite_. Expert design married with modern furnishings, art in one form or another is everywhere the eye lingers. They pass through a modest library, the walls decorated with framed centuries-old maps. Dr. Lewis, in particular, is awestruck, a pang in her gut wishing this were a social call and not work.

They come to a wall of glass doors that exit outside. "The excitement is over this way," Tamsin barks over her shoulder. She continues leading them through a small courtyard centered around a fire pit to an inconspicuous door. At first glance Lauren assumes it's a maintenance door, but soon discovers it's a separate portion of the penthouse. This door opens to a secondary reinforced steel door. With one hand on the bolt and her full body weight leaning into the heavy door Tamsin suggests they brace themselves.

The room is dark, or appears dark, the open door creating a vacuum and hitting the women with a wall of dense air. Lauren puts her hand to her sternum, startled by the stark change in atmosphere. Bo waves her hands in front of her face, "What is that..smell?"

"Probably a mixture of things," Tamsin replies, a hint of disgust in her voice.

A few steps inside and it's plain to see the room has been completely scorched. Mobile generators have been brought in to power floodlamps and portable air filters. The oxygen level is thin and the brightness of the fluorescents illuminate the particles still freely floating. "There are no windows," Tamsin explains.

Dyson is at the other end of the room talking with security guards. He waves the women over to him. Lauren feels a sudden wave of sickness but steels herself.

"I'm glad you could make it," he says. Lauren notes that his statement was directed to her, however he was looking at Bo at the time.

"What the heck is this place?" Bo asks. The security guards stare blankly, preferring Dyson to answer.

"It's…a shrine," he says cautiously. "Dr. Lewis - we have a few bodies I'd like you to look at. Let me take you to them."

As they walk away from the guards Dyson explains what he knows; "This whole area is a shrine to one of the Old Gods, we're not sure which one yet. The whole building was designed to support this penthouse. This entire room, floor to ceiling, is cement, three feet thick. Nothing can get in here."

"More likely nothing can get out.." Lauren muses out loud.

"We have no idea how the fire started, but the epicenter is over there, near where the altar _used to be_. It appears that the heat was intense but quick. You can see for yourselves - what didn't disintegrate melted to whatever else it was in contact with."

When they arrive at the first body Dr. Lewis is shocked by the state of the corpse; the surface is completely black, devoid of clothing or hair or protuberances of any kind. The charred body is on it's side, the right arm clutching it's chest. She delicately lifts the arm slightly, revealing a significantly cleaner underside still bearing some flesh. "Dyson, I think we need to get everyone out of here and have haz-mat people come in. Everything you've described sounds like… _fission_. Ordinary fire doesn't burn this hot, this quickly, and then put itself out."

Everyone relocates to the courtyard and the vault door is shut behind them. Dr. Lewis rummages through her bag, "I never carry my geiger counter and I really should, _after this I swear I will_, we'd know right now if there was cause for concern. I do have some radiation sickness tabs but not enough for _everyone_…"

While Dyson presumably calls for a hazardous materials team, Bo takes notice of the statue at the center of the fire pit. It's a figure of a naked man with one hand on his hip, the other holding his penis; the man's head is thrown back and his sinister mouth wide - as if laughing heartily. Bo's eyes turn to Tamsin, who's been watching her and waiting to remark, "Betcha have one a' these in your backyard, huh?"

"Keep it up,_ bitch flakes_."

Lauren is jolted back to the present by the exchange of unpleasantries between her lover and Tamsin, and she's reminded of something she was thinking about earlier: "Detective, what's the name of this building?"

"I don't know how you say it, it's one of those hipster names that sounds rich but doesn't mean anything. '_Ef… Ef-fry-easy-tizzy?'" _

A nearby security guard has been listening to them and corrects her pronunciation; "It's an english tweaking of a greek word. It means 'pleasure'."

2.)

Amongst the fears that plagued her, there was one fact Neas came to be acutely aware of; here in their cloud-palace home - she was the only female. As her sons grew into men this awareness struck a chord of horror deep in her heart, stirring a sickness whenever she contemplated its significance.

Ceallach was the first to break divine law.

No longer content to gaze at the humans below, he became fond of taking on innocent guises and fiendishly interacting with them. Sometimes he presented himself as a weary traveler, other times he was an old man. Once, as he later recalled to his brothers, he took the shape of a swan just to beguile a woman.

"For a mortal she was wondrous to behold. 'Tis truly a waste that such beauty can exist and yet be constantly fleeting. I was struck by her physical perfection, it is true, but I was possessed also by the purity of her essence. As is the case with such innocence, she was instinctively wary, thus I devised the likeness of a swan. Naturally she was enraptured by my magnificence and unable to abate her curiosity.

"I baited her by swimming ever so cautiously nearer and nearer, and when at last she felt she could reach out to caress me - I pounced. _She was quite devastated, I assure you,_" he smiled. "I resumed in part my man-shape, still half-man and half-beast, and with my beak at her throat informed her that I am her God, and that she must willfully submit to me."

The other brothers were in awe of Ceallach's stories and were easily persuaded by envy. Just like when they were boys at play, the one-upmanship of their cruelty was hampered only by the limits of their imagination.

Soon even Sadbh had left his home in the sky in favor of earthly worship. His mother pleaded with him, insisting it was against the will of the goddess.

"Mother, I lack any first hand recollection of this goddess you have so many times mentioned, and so I question her existence. While I am convinced that you believe she is real, I do not share your faith and thus - will not allow myself to be manipulated by mythical tales. If the goddess were real, why would she leave us? And even if we are only a hollow instrument of her fabrication - born for the sole purpose of tending her precious humans - why would she abandon these humans to our care? If she loves them, why would she leave them? Why would she gift us with eternal life and powers unheard of amongst men - if not to rule them?"


	4. Like Father

1.)

Time is meaningless to the immortal.

In what seemed like weeks or months to Neas and Cian - decades had passed on earth. Enough generations had gone by for humanity to forget the time before the Gods played such crucial roles in their daily lives. Gone were the days of random and coy visitations; the Gods were no longer timid with humans. On the contrary, in no time at all they found themselves quite comfortable.

But comfort breeds complacency, and with complacency there is frequently consequences.

First was that the brothers remained competitive even as Gods. Each one in his own way became obsessed with being the most beloved God, and so they strong-armed humans into choosing allegiances. Through fires, war, floods and plagues - humanity suffered through the jealousy between brothers. It became a contest of affection; shrines were built, destroyed and re-built at twice the previous size. Offerings were made, larger and larger, and when whole crops or herds would not suffice - humans sacrificed themselves. There was no level of fealty great enough - not even death.

This constant strife eventually exhausted them and drove the brothers to put distance between themselves. Thus they occupied the four corners of the earth, and during periods of boredom invented petty grievances to war over.

The other notable consequence was that the brothers had all fathered outrageous quantities of children. It wasn't until some of these children started to display god-like powers that their fathers took notice. It seemed that with each generation further away from Neas and Cian - the inherited god-abilities were diluted, usually concentrated on one, single ability.

Ceallach was flabbergasted when a son of his arrived at his temple, demanding revenge. He felt an odd mixture of pride and insult.

The young man recalled his mother's tale of how Ceallach had taken her while she was gathering wildflowers. Ceallach remembered the incident and regaled in it; he remembered how the young woman dropped her basket of blooms and cried without making any sound at all. He remembered her whiter-than-white skin, like freshly poured cream, and the wonderful, intoxicating scent of her fear. The young man recalled in detail his mother's suffering and poverty as a result of Ceallach's cruel impulses.

Ceallach leant forward in his seat and marveled at the young man. He'd never seen any of his children - or grandchildren - and possibly great-grandchildren - before. Here he could finally see himself, a version of himself at least, and he was unexpectedly touched by his presence.

"_Blood of my blood_," he said delicately, "What is it you would have of me?"

"I would have you die for all the pain you have caused!" the young man shouted in response.

With that the son of Ceallach transformed into Lion, his roars filling the temple and driving the worshippers into a desperate panic. Before Ceallach could rise to his feet the lion pounced, all teeth and claws and fury. Celleach wrestled with the beast on top of him but found his own physical strength rivaled. The jaws of the lion dug into his shoulder and the beast's wide paws tore at his flesh. Celleach's heart swelled with horror upon finding himself so easily overcome.

The struggling pair toppled to the floor. Ceallach grappled with the throat of the beast, desperate to keep the frenzied jaws away from his face and neck. At one point Ceallach succeeded in mounting the animal, but it's hind legs ripped at him, tossing him down the marble stairs and carving a broad crescent gash in his side. Dazed, Ceallach rolled onto his stomach. He could see his own blood pooling around him. There was a dull throbbing in his head and he felt too exhausted to keep fighting. He thought it strange that he never imagined dying before, not even as a daydream or nightmare, and then he realized he never gave living much consideration either.

Smelling victory, the lion walked slowly towards Ceallach, savoring the final moments before the kill. Ceallach, unable to accept death, outstretched his palms and attempted to drag his limp body away from the beast. This last, pathetic act saved his life - for there was a fire pit in the center of the great hall, and at it's mouth lay an iron poker. Summoning his last bit of strength Ceallach dove for the improvised weapon, and drove it straight through the beast as it leapt.

The lion fell next to Ceallach, it's last hot breaths damp on his cheek.

As it's life force departed the animal gradually drifted back into it's human shape and Ceallach was left staring into the vacant gaze of his dead son. Ever the tactician, it dawned on him that he had, perhaps, sired an entire army of malevolent offspring - and in doing so, created the means of his own destruction. He laid there, unmoving, silently contemplating his actions. He wondered how many sons and daughters he might possibly have and for the first time - felt the sickness of fear.

Worshippers cautiously approached their bloodied god, and dropped to their hands and knees as they observed his wounds shrink and disappear. Ceallach furrowed his brow but said nothing.

2.)

_"We must kill them." _

Neas was inconsolable. She had beseeched the All-Mother, day and night, to return and grant her guidance and wisdom - but her prayers were met with silence.

"There was a time, Cian, I could turn my gaze inwards and feel the presence of the goddess within me - but now I feel only emptiness. It is just as Sadbh claims, we have been forsaken - only it is our own doing. Our guardianship was a test and we failed so horribly, our selfishness has damned us. Can't you see? We have destroyed the very thing we were intended to protect, we are the harbingers of destruction. _When the goddess created us - she created evil_._"_

Cian grabbed his partner almost violently and held her tightly against his chest - but comfort couldn't be forced. He felt her tears on his neck and his heart shattered.

"We must kill them. There is no other way. It won't undo the damage that has already been done, but it will give these humans a chance to carve their own fate. So long as there are gods amongst men, there will be tyranny."

3.)

With a kiss and a playful squeeze Bo dropped Lauren off her lab. The corpses from the fire were being delivered there for analysis and Dr. Lewis had a lot of preparation to do. Bo was disappointed that their time together had been interrupted, but was grateful for the opportunity to pay attention to the other important things in her life. Once she'd had a good nap - an afternoon at the Dal with Kenzi sounded like a good plan.

It had taken several hours to get cleared from the crime scene - even after no traces of radiation were found. Fae have their procedural bureaucracy, it seems. Luckily the penthouse view of the city was stunning, and Bo and Lauren watched the sun creep over the horizon together. If it hadn't been for the adjacent room filled with people burnt alive - it would have been positively romantic.

When she arrived at the house - Bo was greeted by a wall of blaring music. Kenzi was flitting about with a duster - which was serving more as a pretend microphone than an actual duster. Bo turned down the stereo and caught a few warbled lines, much to Kenzi's dismay.

"Oh, you're home cough-cough," she said, "I didn't hear the doorbell BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE ONE."

Bo smiled and asked how she was doing. They exchanged some chit-chat and over cold leftovers Bo started talking about the penthouse fire.

"You should have seen this place, Kenz. We are talking some rich-fucking-people. _Old_ money, too. Like Hale's-family-_rich-and-old_."

Kenzi perked up a bit.

"Anyway they're trying to find out who owns the building. It's like - _one_ corporation owns the property, _one_ did the actual construction, _one_ corporation leases several floors here and there to _another corporation_….it just goes on and on, but someone somewhere owns it, _you know?_ So Dyson's working on that."

She grabs a bottled water and takes a swig, "So there was this statue up in the penthouse…" Bo describes it in full detail and then mimics the position using the water bottle in place of the member. Both women chuckle at the outrageousness of it.

"Just goes to show you - you can have all the wealth and power in the world - but in the end everyone just wants to get laid," said the succubus with a wide smile.


	5. Like Son

1.)

Bo's arm sweeps across the mattress, finding nothing. The sheet is cool to the touch. She fans out her fingers, practically willing Lauren's body to be there. Nothing. That long slender torso. That delicious stomach. That navel, _dear god. And those thighs… _

She drifts awake, releasing a heavy sigh. She's grown accustomed to waking up with her lover handy. Her skin tingles with anticipation, expecting the touch it's come to know and _want._ Bo imagines Lauren there and it's almost _as if she can feel her._

Frustrated, Bo grabs her pillow and bear hugs it, growling into it, _"DAMMIT!"_

2.)

Bo and Kenzi burst into the Dal like they own the place. They graciously accept their accolades, the nods and waves from the other dedicated drinkers. Everyone has come to recognise the unaligned succubus and her pet human. When they pony up to the bar Trick already has two ales poured.

"_Wazzup, Trick!"_ Kenzi playfully chimes.

But Trick is in a more serious mood, an urgent look on his face. _"I heard you were at that penthouse,"_ he says to Bo.

"Hello and good morning and good afternoon to you too," Bo says with a sip of beer. Trick frowns and apologizes, "I'm sorry but this sounds serious. I heard they transported 17 bodies to the compound, all of them Fae. Was it some sort of cult suicide?"

This is the first time Bo has heard the actual body count. Her thoughts immediately turn to Lauren, and how swamped she must be at the lab.

"Dyson said there was a shrine…" Bo struggles to remember his exact words. She can see Trick is practically vibrating he's so anxious for more information. "Yeah, Dyson said it was a shrine to the old gods, but he didn't know which one."

"The old gods! Hey! Did you know Trick runs a Fae bible study?" Kenzi blurts. Both Bo and Trick give Kenzi a sideways glance. She's plunged a straw into her pint glass and is cheerfully sipping away. "I heard they drink it like this in europe. Okay no, that's a lie. But that's what I told a guy at the club and he totally believed me _*snort*_"

"The Old Gods," Trick softly repeats. "That's strange."

"Why is it strange?"

"Because they're all dead."

Kenzi interrupts again, "Neez and Keanu are dead? I mean, _were they ever really alive?_ I thought those were stories?"

Trick begins an exasperated explanation but this time Bo interjects, "Wait, what? How do _you _know more about this than I do?"

"I sit here and _drink more than you do_," Kenzi explains. "I asked Trick to entertain me with a story, and he did. A very unsexy Fae bible story."

Bo finally turns to Trick and asks him about the old gods.

"Well, basically, there were two gods in the beginning, Neas and Cian, and they had four sons. The sons sort of took advantage of their godly status and started, you know, co-mingling with humans. This outraged their parents, so they killed their sons, and then themselves."

For a brief moment there was silence. Then Trick continued…

"So…I don't see why anyone would build a shrine to the Old Gods - there's no point - it's not like one could ask for their blessing…."

"_Is that where Fae come from_? From these gods having sex with humans?" Bo's face crinkled with curiosity.

"Yes, that's the mythology. Allegedly, the offspring weren't always Fae, but when they were, well, people reacted differently throughout history. Sometimes those ancient Fae were worshipped, sometimes they were killed at the first sign of being not-quite-human. It's why the Fae formed clans and lived apart from humans. Partially it was to avoid persecution, but also our scholars felt it was in line with what the Old Gods would have wanted. The Dark Fae feel slightly differently about this, of course. They tend to acknowledge a kinship between the four sons. This is why Fae are so serious about lineage."

"Ahhhh," Bo sighs. "So, what do we want to bet that this is some dark fae fuck up?"

"One guess is as good as another at this point," Trick declares, before leaving them to tend to other thirsty customers.

The women turn to their drinks. Kenzi stealthily leans over the bar and pours herself a refill. "You good?" she says to Bo.

"You know it stung a little bit there, when Trick mentioned lineage. It's so important to Fae, yet they deliberately kept my lineage a secret from me."

"I hear ya. It's not cool."

"It's definitely not cool, seeing as though I've tried to help them out every way I can. What do I get out of all this?"

"Free beer?"

"I guess." Feeling lonely, and remembering what it was like to wake up alone, Bo glances at her cell phone to see if she's missed any calls or texts. _Nothing_. She bites her lip, and fights the temptation to text Lauren.

3.)

Ceallach made an unannounced visit to his brother Sadbh. He was fairly indifferent towards Sadbh, but recognized him as an intellectual. Ceallach wanted his advice.

When he appeared, Sadbh was sunning himself in a glorious courtyard, and in the midst of being caressed by two handsome men. Musicians were playing, and women were arranging flowers and dancing. It was all rather serene, and Ceallach was disgusted.

"Is this what you do all day, brother?" Celleach said.

"Yes, absolutely. Don't you?"

Ceallach massaged his chin, frustrated and unsure how to speak to his twin. "Brother, may we speak alone?"

Sadbh met the eyes of his courtesans with disappointment, and through a strained effort sent everyone away. "Yes, brother?"

Ceallach paced back and forth nervously while Sadbh waited patiently. "I would just like to point out my man-servants could have completed what they were working on by now."

His brother flew around in a rage. Sadbh was suddenly alert and attentive. He could see his brother was struggling, and advised him to simply speak plainly.

"Have you…." Ceallach paused, choosing his words delicately, "Have you produced…any…offspring?"

Sadbh laughed a bit and replied that he's sure he has, though probably not too many. "There's a multitude of pleasures available, I like to think I've explored them all. These days my interests lie elsewhere."

Ceallach was grinding his teeth. He grabbed a handful of blooms and crushed them, dropping them to the stone floor. He and his brother could not be more unalike, he thought. Sadbh didn't care about power, and when they'd all fought, he sought only to protect what was his. It was suddenly obvious to Ceallach that Sadbh's followers worshipped him genuinely, not through guile or force. It seems likely any cubs sired by him would be no different.

"Then you probably have very little to worry about," he replied.

"That remains to be seen, dear brother. Don't you suppose our parents still worry about us? And consider our brother Aodh; I've heard he's a daughter who's beauty is unworldly. He practically has her imprisoned…for her safety and his sanity. It is the nature of parents to worry about their children, so long as they live."

Ceallach felt light-headed. In his mind a small army of his progeny were amassing and plotting his demise. "Sadbh," he began, his tone solemn, "Is it possible - do you think it is possible - Can we die? Can we be killed?"

Sadbh was startled by the nature of the question. He'd certainly considered his own immortality, but found this level of inquiry from Ceallach puzzling. Of all his brothers, Sadbh found Ceallach to be the most dangerous, for what he lacked in ability he more than made up for with cunning. Aodh and Bearach in contrast were simple men of simple pleasures and were content with wealth and worship. Sadbh felt that dangerous territory had been breached and was determined to respond with caution.

"I think before I share my musings on this - I need to understand why you are asking."

"Why is that?"

"Ceallach, have you ever wondered why mother had four sons? It's a relative rarity amongst the humans we are supposedly modeled after."

Ceallach shook his head, annoyed that his answer was being delayed.

"I have often wondered if we are each portions of a single man, or god, torn asunder. With Bearach and Aodh we have a man's strength and anger, and with you and I, his brains and his heart." Ceallach was baffled into silence. He'd never imagined anything so wild as this, and yet it made perfect sense to him, as if in his gut he could easily accept it as fact.

"One of my sons entered my temple and challenged me," Ceallach confided. "He assumed the shape of a beast. I was taken by surprise and it was a righteous battle. Dare I say brother I barely won."

"You killed him then?" Sadbh asked without judgement.

"Yes. It was kill or be killed. Or so I am wondering, brother. In the moment I swear I could feel my lifeblood fleeing, but as you can see now I am quite recovered. And determined to be more vigilant."

Sadbh was amazed by this revelation, and by his brother's ability to trust him enough to tell it. With the floodgates of brotherly love and openness cast wide - Sadbh freely shared his thoughts. "I have dedicated much time and contemplation to this very subject, but you realize of course all I have is a basic premise, and no means by which to test it. However, I suspect that since we can bleed like men we can also be killed like men. Although the killing must involve something a bit beyond recovery. I would think a beheading would suffice."

Ceallach's eyes glistened. He grabbed Sadbh and hugged him tightly. "Thank you brother, thank you." Ceallach looked deeply into his brother's eyes - with intent to convey genuine affection and deep appreciation. When he was sure he'd achieved that, he returned Sadbh's wide smile and left his brother, quietly vowing to return with an axe.


	6. The Useless Duration Of Time

1.

Dr. Lewis bites the flesh of her thumb, her eyes wide in disbelief. She watches as seventeen zippered corpse bags are carried into her lab. They don't even have seventeen gurneys - some of the bags are laid out in the hall. Her mind is blank for a moment, but when she snaps out of her shock she begins delegating tasks as any professional would. More lab assistants are called in, and a make-shift morgue is organized.

She explains to her team the procedures she wants followed. Salvage any clothing or personal effects from the victims, those items will be sent for additional testing. Next, thorough autopsies are not required at this time, they are to focus primarily on the lungs and ascertain whether smoke inhalation was a factor in death. Finally, dental X-rays are needed as any remaining teeth are likely to be the sole identifying trait at their disposal.

With that, the group heads off to a locker room to change into scrubs and masks. Lauren takes one last look at her phone: nothing. She considers texting Bo, but worries about waking her from a nap. She leans her forehead into her locker door, staring at the ground. She sighs heavily. It's going to be a long day, and as intellectually intriguing as this case may be, she'd much rather be fucking her girlfriend.

Her mind drifts to the night before..

"Well, well _Doctor,_ I never figured you for such a top," Bo laughed as she surrendered. "You're so…reserved and shy but once you hit the sheets…mm hmm hmmm."

Lauren cackled with laughter in response. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I bet you do," smiled her lover, "It's always the shy ones."

"Oh really?"

"Yes really. It goes to figure that shy people can't be shy_ all the time_, there must be somewhere they can act out, and what do you know, there's _no better place than the bedroom_. Or the sofa. Or the kitchen.."

"That's a fascinating theory Bo, I think we should explore it further…"

Lauren's eyes close as she allows herself to swim in the memory of her lover's body, her soft supple breasts, the touch and feel of them, Bo's nipple forming a tiny pebble against Lauren's tongue..

"Dr. Lewis? We're ready to begin."

The lab assistant's voice shatters Lauren's private moment like a stab in the gut; she feels the agony of letting go, a visceral pang for her lover. As she takes a deep breath and struggles to switch hats, she awkwardly recalls another particularly appropriate phrase she recently learned from Bo - 'lady boner'.

2.

Bo is nervously fidgeting with her phone. She hates to appear desperate but their early morning was so surreal, it feels like ages since she's seen or heard from Lauren. She sucks on her lip and accidentally catches a glimpse from Kenzi.

"What?" she says defensively.

"Dude. Why don't you just have your phone surgically implanted? That way you won't have to check it every two seconds."

"Look, I know, I know. I just…"

"Horndog."

"Yeah, a little bit."

Kenzi spins around on the barstool, "Look, there's plenty of hot ass Fae in here - why not treat yourself to a light snack?"

Bo takes a look around, her eyes lingering over several individuals, a couple of them even acknowledge her stare. She returns to her beer and frowns, "Yeah, it's just not what I'm craving right now."

Kenzi throws an arm around her friend, squeezing her tight, "Dr. Sugartits sure has you in a bind. Whodathunk? Personally I don't get it, but I suppose if you're into Gap clothes and 80's leather jackets she's the shizzle…" Before Bo can respond Kenzi slaps the bar, requesting Trick bring them some whisky shots, stat.

Trick obliges, and as he pours he asks if there's been any word from Lauren. Bo shakes her head.

"I'm sure she's really busy," he says.

Bo smiles in agreement and downs her shot. As the liquor settles, she finds herself wondering what it would be like to live as ordinary people do, with ordinary, uncomplicated lives.

3.

Ceallach materialized from thin air, startling the worshipers in the temple even though they'd witnessed this miracle a dozen times over. There was something strange about his manner this time, and his people were instinctively afraid. He took a few broad steps toward the group, and grabbed a man by his arm. He dragged the man over to the fire pit and ripped the clothes from his quivering body. Ceallach plunged a poker into the coals, stating, "I have two commands, and they are to be fulfilled immediately." With that, he pulled the glowing poker from the fire and drove it hard into the man's ribs, burning him. His curdling screams filling the temple.

"I want all of my sons and daughters found and marked in this way. Do you understand me? Every child, every descendant of mine is to be marked as you mark your livestock." His eyes pored intently over every single worshiper - as if speaking to their very souls.

His eyes then fell to the worshiper at his feet. The man was struggling to endure his pain quietly. Ceallach appreciated this, and willed the wound gone. The crowd gasped, and the thankful man skittered away.

"Secondly," Ceallach ordered, "I desire a weapon be made for me. A weapon worthy of a god, one that can cleave a head from it's shoulders."

He gestured the crowd leave him, and he took to his throne. He massaged his chin and contemplated his strategy. He would test his brother's theory - and who better to test it on than Sadbh himself! If he fails, Sadbh will forgive him. But if he succeeds - Sadbh's deliberate isolation practically ensures he won't be discovered until it's too late.

Ceallach slumped down low and relaxed in his seat, smiling.

In the privacy of his empty hall, Ceallach allowed himself to consider that peculiar glint of pride he felt when he first saw his son - but found himself incapable of extending those feelings to his own siblings, or parents. He dismissed his emotion as weakness, and strengthened his resolve to prove himself the most cunning and resourceful of the lot.

He remembered Sadbh's analogy of the four brother's separately comprising the fury and strength and heart and mind of mankind - and spoke in a low, ominous voice, "Then I begin by cutting out the heart."


	7. The Unquiet Earth

The Morrigan peers through the tinted window of her limo, her chiseled features twisted into a scowl. She's not the kind of woman to respond to just anyone's beck and call. Cyril Smith, however, is a man of means and influence. Amongst Fae he's understood to be a wild eccentric, but that doesn't begin to describe him. Descended from nobility, he's endured the burden of extreme luxury his entire life, and due to an excess of means - his suffered flights of whimsy. Cyril has worn many hats, floating through life as a leaf on the wind, utterly free to pursue life's pleasures.

His proclivities are well known. In fact, if he advertised any less he'd undoubtedly be a prime target for blackmail. Luckily, or unluckily for some, Cyril kept very little hidden.

"If I'm not back in 15 minutes - come get me," the Morrigan says to her driver. She launches her long, silk-stockinged legs from the limo and struts her disdain up the stairs to the mansion. A young adonis of a doorman greets her formally, and escorts her to a lounge where Cyril is waiting.

She's had dealings with him before; his support, both financial and social is a highly valuable commodity. Cyril is one of the few Fae able to live as he pleases without much in the way of community pressure. It's this freedom the Morrigan despises - even as her title grants her significant power, she's hardly immune to criticism. There are those, even amongst Dark Fae, that would eagerly see her replaced with a more imposing figurehead. Meanwhile, Cyril and his sexual circus of hedonistic freaks do as they choose without ire or complaint. If anything, when spoken of publicly, Cyril Smith conjures wide smiles and amusement, like a perverted but affable uncle.

Cyril is sitting on a long, low back Eames sofa facing a row of windows. Monk-hooded finches are dancing amongst the bamboo outside, their chirps and twitters providing the only noise. The Morrigan sees smoke rings billowing in the air, dissipating into a smelly cloud of cheroot. She waves it away from her face as she approaches.

"Darling!" Cyril chimes as he rises to his feet, arms open wide.

"Cyril, sweetheart."

"It's nice of you to swing by. You look lovely, as always." His eyes unashamedly roll over the length of her, "That's a wonderful dress you're wearing, you certainly know how to work your assets."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith, you're as dashing as ever," It's a forced complement and she nearly gags while saying it. Cyril is a handsome and stylish older man, but the Morrigan can't pretend he doesn't cast a wide, impersonal net. He collects experiences like some people collect stamps.

He takes a long puff from his meerschaum pipe and coolly blows the smoke over his shoulder, away from her. She smiles at the gesture. Sleazy as he may be, she thinks, he's still a gentleman. For a moment their eyes are locked, his soulful blue eyes peering straight through her - making her weak in the knees.

He finally speaks and breaks the spell; "Well - let's not pretend this is a social visit. You are here to check on your investment."

The Morrigan gathers her senses and awkwardly shifts into a less cordial mood. "My investment has already attracted a bit of attention, I'd like to talk a bit about that first."

"What is there to say, darling? We took every precaution we could think of, we couldn't exactly plan for a smooth transition. And considering the enormity of what I set out to achieve - I'd say things went exceptionally well."

"My sources tell me there were seventeen dead _extra-crispy_ Fae found at a building we jointly own - that doesn't scream '_success!' _ to me."

"Tell me - what do the police actually know? There is no evidence of a crime, only a fire. The circumstances may be strange, but they are not incriminating. They won't even be able to claim it was dark-on-light crime because as soon as they identify the corpses - they'll find there are both dark and light Fae together. Everyone was co-mingling quite happily, and then there was a terrible, terrible fire. An accident, most certainly. All of this will blow over, and the insurance will cover it all." He waves his hand as if sweeping any cause for concern away.

"You are so certain of that?" The Morrigan stammers, annoyed.

"Sweetie," he says, cupping her elbow, "of course I'm certain." His brow is furrowed with convincing concern. "Now come with me. Let's pay a visit to our Old God."

He leads her to heavy wooden door. Through it she can hear piano music. She looks at Cyril quizzically; he responds by saying only "He seems to like jazz, isn't that lovely? He's listening to my Errol Gardner records."

Cyril cracks the door of his library open, and through the tiny space the Morrigan catches sight of a young man dressed in loosely fitting clothes. One of Cyril's suits, she imagines.

"How's your ancient sumerian?" he asks her. Her face contorts and he touches her arm, "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Yesterday I told him to imagine he speaks english, so now he does."

Cyril closes the door quietly. "What, that's it?" She snaps.

"He's distressed," Cyril explains while walking her away. "I am being cautious, do try and understand."

"I have sunk millions of dollars into this pet project of yours, when everyone else thought you were a loon," she says pointedly, "You can not show me two seconds of some emo jazz-loving teenager and expect me to believe he's a descendant of a god..?!" Cyril Smith tries to interrupt her but she continues with a fury, "How am I supposed to know this isn't some boy-toy you imported from…from..HotYoungMan-istan?!" She plants a hand on her burning forehead in an effort to calm herself.

Cyril wraps his arms around her comfortingly, and the Morrigan shockingly allows it.

"Morrigan, darling. There's no need to be so afraid. Your money was well-spent, I assure you." He releases her and gestures her to a nearby chair.

"First of all, he is not a descendant of a god, he is a god. I feel safe in assuming he has all the power Aodh had, he just doesn't realize it."

"How can he not realize it? He roasted an entire room of full of people. If you hadn't been on the phone with me at the time you'd be a hunk of charcoal too."

"He doesn't realize that was his doing. He was upset. Apparently when he asked where Muirenn was someone told him she was dead."

"Okay, you're losing me, I know the story of Aodh and his brothers but who the fuck is Muirenn, and who is this jerkoff in your library?"

Cyril sighs heavily. "Our history is so rich and colorful dearest Morrigan, you'd do well by studying it. Granted, there's been so much philosophical debate over what the Great Books should contain and what should be omitted, it's hardly fair to the aspiring student. But we in academia have the luxury, I suppose, of being exposed to all of the writings, all of the texts. Even the Apocrypha, which is, needless to say, what you helped fund in part…"

"Yeah yeah, I'll put it on my eReader. Get on with it."

Cyril gestures a manservant and is immediately brought two brandies. He nods to the Morrigan and she graciously accepts, uneasily balancing the snifter in her unsteady hands.

"My curiosity was piqued when studying the Great Demise, the slaughter of Neas and Cian's sons. The Great Books are pretty plain in their description of events, Neas and Cian, to be efficient, each decide to take two sons. They reason that Celleach and Aodh are the most wicked and should be killed first."

"Yes, I know this, so Neas appears to Bearach an turns him into a pillar of salt right inside his own temple, blah blah blah.."

"YES," Cyril exclaims a little excitedly, "But the Apocrypha give a much more detailed account of the slaying of Ceallach. I'm sure our scholars of old simply felt the story was overly wordy and insignificant, but it was my first clue…

It was decided, then, that Cian would conquer Aodh and Ceallach, for they were the most wicked./ Neas would put to rest Bearach and her dear Sadbh.

She would mourn Sadbh/ unlike the other sons because she felt his heart could be pure, but chose instead pleasures/ over righteousness.

When Cian appeared to Ceallach, he found his son upon the temple balcony, overlookng/ a sea of wretchedness. Ceallach had ordered his

daughters and sons/ bear his mark burnt into their flesh, and his human minions were carrying out this command./ His minions were transformed

figures with twisted visages eyes aglow with evil. When Cian approached his son/ he found him diminished, too weak to wield the sword that hung

from his side./

"Do you see? The Great Books make no mention of Ceallach's human thralls being transformed into these evil creatures with glowing eyes, nor do they speak of Ceallach being injured in any way, or too weak to wield the sword he'd had made!"

"Pardon me but I don't get what the big deal is."

"There's a very similar passage with the killing of Aodh. When confronted Aodh is scarcely more than a mortal man, too weak to challenge his father!"

"…and there must be more to this?"

"Well, truthfully, when I originally read these passages I merely found them peculiar, I didn't think much of them. But then I tried to imagine those end times from a practical point of view. What was it like for Ceallach? We know from the Great Books that he's just learned how to kill a god so he orders a weapon be made for him. We can presume it's the sword at his side that's mentioned in the Apocrypha, yes? We also know that he's ordered all of his descendants be branded, both books confirm that."

The Morrigan studies Cyril, hie level of excitement, his animated gestures. She's unsure of what to do with her skepticism. Suddenly, her driver is introduced to the room. Cyril either doesn't notice, or doesn't care.

"So imagine you've just sent - who knows? - a few dozen, maybe a hundred? of your temple workers into the city to forcibly brand men, women and children of all ages. How easy do you think that would be? You can assume some people subjected willingly, but everyone? We know at least one child of Ceallach's was brave enough to challenge him directly, so how could ordinary human beings possibly pose a threat to his Fae offspring?"

"You think - Ceallach turned his followers into - demons of some sort?"

"I think whatever he turned them into, it took all of his power. And then his father appeared, and turned him into a pillar of salt. So, this was my first thesis, were those demonic devotees the first underfae?" He said with a wide smile. "But then it got me thinking because the story of Aodh is so similar, and that's when I remembered the story of the Star-Crossed Lovers, Archemedeon and Muirenn."

2.)

The last body. The last corpse. Lucky number seventeen, Dr. Lewis muses. She's exhausted and fantasizing about a cup of hot tea and a comfortable bed. And maybe Bo. Most definitely Bo.

She's struggling to wedge a plate of X-ray film between the jaws of lucky number seventeen. An assistant is holding the skull still, another assistant is standing over her shoulder. Just as the plate slips in part way, the remnants of charred lips disintegrate into a cloud of ash and the lower jaw pops off. "Dammit!" she hisses. One of the assistants points out that at least it will be easier this way. Dr. Lewis agrees, and announces rather apathetically that she's leaving for the day.

She discards her scrubs and booties and mask and passes through decontamination. As an extra precaution she showers at the lab. When she finally reaches her locker she checks her phone before anything else. She has six messages:

" the Dal. I miss u"

"I 3 u"

"Still Dal. Miss u"

"working late?"

"call me when ur done"

"xxxxxxoooooo"

Lauren cocks an eyebrow, suspecting that Bo has spent the entire day at the Dal. She'll probably be drunk, possibly too drunk for what Lauren's been imagining all day. She dresses herself and pulls her wet hair back. A driver from the compound will take her to the Dal, and she'll rescue her intoxicated lover from the bottom of a beer glass.

During the drive Lauren relaxes and lets her head rest on the back of the seat. She wearily watches the blur of city lights racing past the car. She thinks about the case, what she knows of it. She thinks about the penthouse and that crude statue. She remembers how hard it was to breathe, the air cluttered with particulates. She wonders what the shrine must have looked like before the fire. The fire, the shrine, the altar. The altar. Dyson said it was an altar, but all that was left was a ring of large stones. Must have been a large altar.

Or a portal.


	8. I Could've Danced All Night -- But Didnt

Dyson leans back in his chair, exhausted, kneading his thumb and forefinger into his tired, blurry eyes. The bulk of his day has involved phone-tag with lawyers, personal assistants and public relations people representing the conglomerate that owns the high-rise. But he finally has an answer to show for his red-tape tango - the penthouse is owned by one _Cyril Smith_. Dyson doesn't need the police database to know who Cyril is. His first thought is that Tamsin will definitely come in handy dealing with Cyril and undoubtedly the Morrigan; his second thought is that he's probably wasted his whole day. He suspects Tamsin has known all along exactly which Dark players are involved. He feels a sudden twinge of guilt thinking this way, and reminds himself not to confuse _instinct_ with _prejudice._

He pushes away from his desk and exhales, "That's it, I'm done for today." He glances over his shoulder and catches Tamsin's eye. She's pouring over photos from the crime scene. "Did you notice these…stones? From the Altar? Some of them are huge. And they don't look like the kind of thing you get at Home Depot garden center, you know?"

"I'm done. I'm so done," and then he adds with a wolfish smile, "I could give a flying fuck about Cyril's Stones."

Tamsin flashes a fake smile in response. "A girl can never get too many jokes about balls at the office! Awesome! Thanks for that!"

Dyson tries not to appear too deflated by her snark. Tamsin is so hard to read. Sometimes antagonizing her is the only way he can get a response that feels genuine. He's not accustomed to women being indifferent towards him, let alone perpetually perturbed.

He's about to cut their goodbyes short when his phone hums from his inside breast pocket. He sees the number and cocks a curious eyebrow; it's Lauren. Dyson hesitates to answer; if Lauren needed to talk to him, and if she were with Bo, she'd have Bo call. And so he guesses that wherever Lauren is calling from, Bo is somewhere else - probably the Dal.

As his phone's voicemail chirps he whisks his jacket from the back of his chair. "I'm headed to the Dal," he announces.

"Maybe I'll see you there later," Tamsin says without looking up. "I could use a drink tonight."

Tamsin warily observes Dyson as he says goodnight to a few of the guys and disappears through the precinct's doors. She supposes the call was from Bo the Wonder-Fae. The only person still alive dressing like she's auditioning for a Whitesnake video. Tamsin audibly harrumphs at her own joke. What does Dyson see in her? Or is he just a slave to those succubi charms? Whatever it is, it costs him his objectivity.

Frustrated by studying the photos for hours and not finding anything to go on - she flips the file folder shut and slides it into her bag. She decides to hang around a few minutes before surprising the Sunshine Crew at the bar.

2.)

Lauren timidly enters the Dal. She's unsure of what condition she'll find Bo in, and what level of challenge she'll face when it comes to wrestling attention away from Kenzi.

She spies the two of them at the bar, in their usual perches. She measures their level of laughter and gaiety. Bo seems a little drunk, but not sloppy. Lauren takes a deep breath and weaves her way over to the two besties.

Lauren Lewis wonders what this unusual pair gain from each other; they're both misfits, she supposes. Both have had to engage in some rather unscrupulous behaviors to survive, though perhaps in Bo's case it was more out of necessity. But maybe it was necessary for Kenzi, too, and together she and Bo are discovering stability for the first time in their lives. Together they've moved into their little ramshackle clubhouse and turned it into a home. They've also jumpstarted their own freak show investigation service. Lauren realizes that she is just as guilty as others for having dismissed Kenzi as a sidekick, comedy-relief even, but now she wonders if this is truly the case. Lauren wonders, when you get down to details, if _she_ isn't the sidekick in this menagerie.

"Hey, Bo," she says warmly, her smile masking an ache in her heart.

The pair turn around, and Lauren is greeted with a tight hug from her lover. Kenzi waves and flashes a detached smile.

"I've missed you," Bo says, and then in a more serious tone, "How was work?"

"Work…was a struggle today." Lauren takes a seat next to Bo and when Trick offers a drink she declines.

"Oh babe, you don't want to unwind a little bit?" Lauren interprets this as meaning Bo isn't ready to leave the Dal. Sensing an opportunity to entice her lover with better things, she retorts with "I was hoping to unwind in your bedroom."

"OKAY THAT'S IT, IMA GO PLAY SOME POOL BAI," Kenzi blurts, drink in hand and artfully dismounting her barstool. Lauren and Bo look at each other and share a bemused smile.

"Well I was hoping Dyson would stop by with maybe some more details from the case," Bo says.

Lauren swallows her lip, saying nothing. She tries to prevent her brain from assailing her with the screeching, malevolent thoughts of having labored all day over the exact same case as Dyson, and yet her big reward at the end of the night is to play sober driver. Luckily, Bo finished her next thought; "In the meantime, however, I'm sure we can find a cozy little place to be alone.."

Lauren looks astonished. _"In the bar?" _Bo takes Lauren by the hand, her tumbler of whisky in the other, and leads her in back to Trick's study.

Bo leans back against the door and hands the tumbler of whisky to Lauren. Lauren observes her lover pressed against the ancient hardwood of the heavy door and studies her body language. She takes a sip of the whisky, which burns her throat a bit and worse, the tip of her nose. Her face flushes and she sniffles, and while she unfurls her brow she says "I'm not sure this is such a good idea."

"It's an excellent idea," Bo says stepping forward, walking Lauren backwards to the leather sofa. Bo deftly rescues the whisky right before Lauren stumbles into her seat. Bo takes a quick swig, locking eyes with her lover and then gracefully straddling her. Lauren trembles a little bit, afraid that they'll be interrupted.

Standing on her knees, Bo undoes Lauren's belt-buckle and unzips her jeans. "Do me a favor and pull those down for me mmkay?"

"Bo…" Before Lauren can say more her lover has covered her mouth with her own, "It's okay baby, just do it.."

Bewitched and perhaps slightly intimidated, Lauren cautiously puts her thumbs inside the waist of her jeans and pushes them down to her knees. Her boy-cut panties remain intact. Bo laughs, "I love these on you."

"Oh?" Lauren's voice cracks.

"God you're adorable," Bo murmurs in Lauren's ear, followed with a nibble.

Bo leans back and unbuttons her already low-cut shirt, allowing it to slump down a bit on her shoulders. Lauren still feels uneasy in this unsecured location - her eyes nervously dart to the door - and Bo takes her face in her hands, replanting her gaze on the task ahead. "Eyes over here," she indicates towards her breasts.

"Relax," she urges, returning the glass of whisky. Lauren hesitatingly takes another sip, complying rather than relaxing. Before she can hurl more protests Bo covers her lover's mouth in kisses, and then, the coup de grace; Bo starts moving her hips in a slow, gentle grind. Lauren responds despite her best restraint. A low, guttural moan escapes her throat as her hands grab hold of Bo's thighs. Surrendering finally to the cloud of hormones bathing her brain, Lauren plants her mouth in Bo's cleavage.

The two women wrestle with the clothes that confine them, as well as the diabolical non-compliant sofa. Frustrated, Bo urgently whispers into her lover's ear, "I want to taste you.." The words send a bolt of electricity straight through Lauren, a knot twisting in her belly. Mouth partly-open and eyes cloudy, she can't think of words to respond; the moment hangs in the air between them, waiting for one of them to grasp at an opportunity. After an excruciating pause - Bo's eyes light up. She springs to her feet and grabs her shirt, "The storeroom," she says decisively, "Let's go."

Lauren clumsily rises, knees wobbly, and pulls up her jeans. She's zipping her fly when Trick enters the room.

"OH GOD," he exclaims, closing the door hastily and then angrily reopening it. "OH MY GOD._ I EAT MY LUNCH BACK HERE_."

He covers his face, still muttering a slew of expletives, _"Why does everyone think they can do whatever the hell they want to back here? Does this look like a flop house?"_

"Trick we didn't, we.." Lauren struggles to assemble a sentence, standing there, frozen just like a doe caught in headlights.

Laughing, Bo grabs Lauren and drags her back through the bar, howling, "KENNNNZ! _AVENGERS ARE GOOOO!" _ The two women are cackling from embarrassment with a bewildered Kenzi trailing behind. After all three of them have climbed into Bo's car, Kenzi unleashes her dissatisfaction, "I'll have you two know I had to scratch to get out of there. I had a money shot all lined up, too."

"_We all had a money shot lined up,"_ the words stumble through Bo's wild laughter.

"Keys? Where are..keys?" Lauren asks, nervously tucking a wave of hair behind her ear.

"Oh my god, what did you two horndogs do," Kenzi inquires sternly. "Did you guys do it in Trick's room 'cause I like totally eat in there."

The statement yields another round of laughter from Bo, and some highly embarrassed snickering from Lauren.

"Oh jeez, you kids. I'd like to have _one fucking surface._. make that _one non-fucking surface_ somewhere, anywhere. Seriously. Aren't you like, a doctor or something? It's unsanitary."

The laughter dies down, and Bo and Lauren look at each other seriously, each wondering if the other is feeling the weight of Kenzi's reprimand. They both know it's true, there's been some inappropriate public displays of affection. They could certainly do well by reigning things in a little bit, resist impulsive behavior, act more like respectable adults. Lauren frowns, and exhales through her nose. It's the sound of concession. Bo bows her head in agreement. Busted.

Solemn, Lauren turns and faces Kenzi and apologises; "We've totally fucked in the backseat."


	9. How Do We Get To Yes

**How Do We Get To Yes & Other Negotiation Tactics**

"Okay, _you guys are fucking gross,_ okay?" Kenzi turns her head in disgust and digs through her minuscule purse, "I know I have wet-naps in here," her desperation only making the howls of laughter worse.

"Kenzi, I was joking, I swear. _I'm sorry_," Lauren apologizes for her joke, although the smile on her face detracts from her earnestness.

Bo wipes the tears from her eyes, catching her breath. She plants her hand on Lauren's knee and smiles and says, "I didn't know you had it in you."

With her arms folded across her chest, Kenzi is stewing in her own disdain. She observes headlights approaching, and when the car parks behind the Dal she immediately recognizes it as Dyson's.

"Yo, Dyson is here so I'll catch a ride with him. _I'm going back in for a vodka bath._ Remember the kitchen table is off limits,'" she points an accusing finger at the lovers, "Later biyatches!" She bounces from the car in a rare display of physical exertion.

"If she didn't hate me before she certainly hates me now," Lauren smiles at Bo. "But I've given up trying to be friends with her. She doesn't want my friendship, she wants your happiness."

Bo smiles a crooked smile. She knows Lauren is right, and fights the temptation to lie and make excuses for Kenzi. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Hopefully I make you happy, and in time maybe she'll notice that."

Bo's expression softens, moved by Lauren's seemingly bottomless patience. She moves closer to her lover and kisses her deeply. When she pulls away she mentions, casually, that she's never christened the backseat.

"Well. I'm not sure if I have a response to that." Bo's nimble fingers are playing with the ends of Lauren's hair. It's a seduction technique Lauren finds painfully effective.

Lauren sees that Bo has that particular glint in her eye, the one that has bent Lauren's will on more than one occasion. It hopes, it promises, it begs - it communicates love and longing and loss all at once - it offers seduction and sex. She finds herself transfixed, and when Bo's hand travels up an inch or two from it's previous resting spot of Lauren's knee, she finds herself open to any and all suggestions.

"W-what did you have in mind?" Lauren asks, clearing her throat.

Bo smiles as she exhales. "You had a long day, and I know you just want to go home and go to bed…But I'm really curious to know if Dyson's learned anything. So I'm wondering if there's a way that we can both get a little bit of what we want?"

"Honestly I'm a bit too embarrassed to go back in there so soon," Lauren says, shyly.

Bo's hand finally lands on the mark it's been flirting with, sending a rush of electrical spikes along Lauren's spine. Her lips part with a whimper, as Bo slowly moves over her. They start kissing, breathlessly, Bo's hand planted firmly between her lover's legs. "Let's get in back," Bo says. It's more of a declarative statement than a suggestion. Lauren hesitates, but only for a moment.

In the backseat - Bo is something of a caged tiger, unleashed. She presses Lauren down into the vinyl seat, their legs still bumping and awkwardly searching for a way to be comfortable, if not at least settled. The two women are kissing heavily, when Bo takes a moment to allay Lauren's fears - pointing out that the car windows are fogging over. She watches Lauren's eyes dart around the vehicle before eagerly returning to the heated make out session.

With her shirt pushed up over her brassiere, Lauren is in the midst of losing herself in the tiny, cramped quarters of the backseat of Bo's car. Her lover's masterful hands are teasing out pleasures through her clothes - and her kisses are more intoxicating than the earlier sips of whisky.

Bo slides a hand under the soft fabric of Lauren's bra, finding a tight nipple waiting expectantly. Lauren groans from the merest touch. Lauren is breathing heavy, and hard - and Bo is frenzied by her lover's desire. "I can't wait anymore," Bo says, and once again grabs at Lauren's belt, "I need you to sit up a little bit…"

In the half-second Lauren takes to consider the consequences of what may happen, fear and anxiety do make their presence known; but having been driven to the brink and let down already once this evening has taken it's toll. Suddenly she's willing to take a little gamble on those steamy windows and the cover of night.

Bo expertly brings Lauren's jeans part-way down her thighs.

Lauren is startled by her own nudity, like this, outside in the evening, barely shrouded by darkness. Her skin looks grey with the moon shining through the translucent rear window, the headlamps of passing cars draping shadows across her and her lover. It's almost like a blanket of night perpetually being dragged over them, covering then revealing them.

Bo's tongue goes searching between Lauren's legs and easily finds what it's been hungry for. Lauren's hips buckle, prompting Bo to steady them in her hands.

Lauren teeters on the edge, just as if her body were dangling from a cliffside, stifling the screams in her throat when the screams clearly have a life all their own. Her body jerks and quivers despite it's many restraints. She feels so vulnerable like this, her legs partially bound, her shirt pushed up - and an impending climax threatening to be beyond her control. "Bo, Bo - you have to stop," she whimpers..

"No way," is all Bo bothers to say. Lauren pleads again but it's too late..

Lauren's body buckles and shudders, with clenched fists she bites the collar of her shirt and screams through her teeth. Pleased - and somewhat surprised - Bo's hands massage the insides of her thighs, teasing out the last few shivers of ecstasy.

She lays in silence for several minutes, her breathing gradually returning to normal. Bo watches the transformation, her fingers sometimes tracing lines along Lauren's body. She's touched by her lover's physical beauty. Her rare, natural beauty.

Lauren dizzily sits up, her head heavy, her eyelids heavy. "Bo - that was amazing.."

"You're amazing," Bo says as she runs her fingers through Lauren's tussled hair.

They hear a car pull up and park a few spaces down from them, so Lauren wearily fixes her clothes as quickly as she can. Bo at least realizes the foggy windows are a dead giveaway, and slumps down where she's sitting. Lauren, on the other hand, rests her swimming head on the edge of the backseat.

The sound of approaching footsteps against the gravel of the alley is enough to stir Lauren's curiosity. She languidly rolls her head to one side, peering though a portion of window not as cloudy as the rest. She strains to focus her eyes, but the footsteps have stopped. Perhaps she was imagining it? Lauren finishes fastening her belt buckle and when she scans the window a second time - she sees Tamsin's face, clear as day. The two women stare at each other, faces unflinching. When Tamsin turns around and heads into the Dal, Bo asks if Lauren saw who it was.

"I couldn't tell. No one we know, I don't think."


	10. Darkest Days

_Thanks for all the new reviews, the feedback is wonderful. I encourage any and all of you to PM me with any other thoughts or criticisms you care to share. It's also nice to hear that many of you also read Organic Chemistry and enjoyed it. To be honest, I look back at it as being very crude (as in rough), and I haven't the heart to re-read it._

1.)

The Morrigan struts down the steps of Cyril's mansion with all the grace of a gazelle in stiletto heals.

Her driver dashes ahead, eagerly opening the rear door of her parked limo - and with equal grace and fluidity she glides inside.

She sinks into supple leather that sighs under her weight. She doesn't have the energy to summon her usual contempt. Cyril has that effect on her. The older gentleman, like a kindly physician, is so unassuming and non-threatening - even in the face of direct threats - his constant unwavering calm is captivating and seductive. She hates him for it. She also plays with the fantasy of him carrying her upstairs to his bedroom. She hates him for that, too.

He's given her a file folder of notes and photocopies to look over. It sits in her limp hands. She would prefer to see results rather than read about what she's financed. But as is typical with Cyril, he's somehow magically put her fears to rest. He says the Dark have acquired an Old God and she believes him, despite what she's seen with her own eyes. She knows that Cyril must have shopped around for other financiers - perhaps seeking out his fellow pseudo-intellectuals first. She assumes that everyone dismissed him as being a letch and a nutcase. Undoubtedly she was his last choice, although she doesn't doubt that he'd have sought out Light Fae if left no other option. This fact was a prime consideration when he finally came to her with his outlandish tales of Archemedeon, the Doomed Lover and bane of Aodh.

As the limo winds down the driveway and onto the estate's oak-canopied private road, the Morrigan flips open the file-folder. At first she has no real intention of reading, but Cyril was kind enough to provide copies of of the relevant myths. Her fingers graze over the meticulously assembled papers as if to detect some lingering essence of his thoughtful, methodical touch. Her driver hears her sigh, and asks if she's feeling alright.

"No talking," she barks back.

2.)

These are the darkest days, Cian thought to himself. He pondered his culpability in all that had transpired. Had he been too loose with his sons? Was he not a good father? Should he have taken Neas' fears more seriously? Here, at the end times, he knew what they were doing was right and just. There is no other way, as Neas herself has said.

He walked unseen amongst Ceallach's townspeople, detectable only as a cool breeze against the shoulders of the frantic, terrified masses. People lined the streets, their mouths agape in horror. Women were crying. Men were shouting. He watched as people were dragged from their homes and stripped naked - branded with a symbol that in their language read as 'damned'.

The damned are corralled by Ceallach's demonic devotees, forced to march through the blood of the dissenters that came before them. Disemboweled bodies line the square. The sound of buzzing gnats is deafening.

Damned women showing signs of pregnancy - or merely rumored to be pregnant - are force-fed pennyroyal and parsley. Damned men are banished or face castration. Secretly, those who chose banishment (and they all did) are murdered as they exit the town gate.

Ceallach watched the chaos from his balcony window. It's a sloppy affair, he notes. Somehow when he'd invented this plan he'd imagined it would go more smoothly than this, or at least more quietly. But he's easily agitated in his weakened state. Aodh had failed to mention how weak the mortal body is and how vulnerable it is to the slightest of irritants. Nonetheless, his army of worshippers possess many of his powers, that much is just as promised. Ceallach is eager for their task to be done so he can reclaim his essence. After some much deserved celebrating, he fancies he'll fulfill the second part of his plan - making himself the one and only God.

The noise of the streets below becomes too much for him and he turns away. He muses how things will play out in the weeks to come; given a carefully placed plague or two, he suspects the townsfolk will turn on the damned - murdering everyone bearing the cursed brand. He need not raise another finger, he smiles.

He doe not notice his father appear. There was neither a sound, nor a word spoken - he reached for his sword but was too weak to draw it. His heart, clearly, was quicker than his mind - for it flooded with dread before he could even think to be afraid. His final vision was that of his father weeping.

Cian stood in agony before the pristine statue of his son. He remembered him as a child, joyful and perfect. He placed his hand lovingly on Ceallach's shoulder, and with a gentle squeeze, the statue collapsed into a mound of salt.

After a mournful pause, he stepped out onto the balcony and reclaimed his son's essence from his former worshippers. Their hollow husks fell empty to earth, soaking in the blood of all those they'd murdered. The screams and howls of the crowd turned to muffled confusion as they grasped the awareness that something remarkable had just happened. Many of them fell to their knees and prayed, but they didn't know to whom.

Cian took a moment to sit in the throne of his deceased son and wept openly.

Aodh was next.


	11. The Love Song of Archemedeon

The Morrigan continues sorting through the papers Cyril provided:

"Dearest Evony,

Included here is an excerpt from the Book of Apocrypha, Malechius Edition, dated the third era, year seventy-four. This is widely acknowledged to be the most thorough compilation.

The verses I have provided are numbered ninety-seven through one-hundred-one, and are referred to in academic circles as "The Love Song of Archemedeon".

Please note, with some preference, I hope, that the translation is my own.

* * *

"It was the final harvest at summer's end

The sun hung low and heavy clouds

told us winter would soon be (here)*

I saw her first dancing in tall grasses

at the purple mountain steppes,

Raindrops fell and chilled the bone

but none did touch her pearl skin.

With eager hands harvest forsaken,

and yearning heart I loved as no man loves.

Forbidden, a curse, burns the land unending

with none left to forgive me

I would not be persuaded

A fearless death but worse cruelty awaits

She is the sun and I'm the moon,

To see her for all time and never touch again.

* * *

*The Old Fae character for 'here' is the same as 'come' as in, to come or to arrive, so this line has been contested. My choice in using 'here' is purely artistic flourish.

The Old Fae tongue, a highly musical language, follows a verb, object, subject pattern, so translation can be a funny business, and naturally inspires great debate. Indeed, my best critics are the Archemedeon Society, or the Circle Of The Moon as they are known elsewhere and abroad. If either of these groups seem familiar to you, it is because they were largely responsible for the location and acquisition of stones from the Temple of Aodh, and select members of their group were amongst the deceased recovered from my penthouse.

It is unlikely these verses were written by Archemedeon as they describe his imprisonment, as well as the events that follow. In the Old Books that are more widely known amongst common fae, this is the end of the story. I suppose the moral to be gleaned is that loving humankind will be rewarded with banishment, and the books were edited to further this goal. I'm sure you are familiar with the versions of this myth taught to children and studied in school. But The Apocrypha go on to describe a diminished Aodh, as he had transferred the sum of his godly essence to Archemedeon, solely for the purpose of keeping him banished. If we are to take things literally, and we now have definitive proof that we can, how else can a mortal man survive alive on the moon?

These events coincide with The End Times, and form the substance of my paper, _not yet published_, **"Darkest Days: The Transference of Godly Essence, by Cryril Smith XVII"**. In The Apocrypha, as I note in my findings, confronted by Cian, in a panic Aodh draws power from his daughter Muirenn, thus rendering her mortal. This implies two things; _one_, his daughter's punishment was cut short and she was retrieved from the sun. _Two_, when Aodh was slain, her powers did not return. She lived and died a mortal woman. Meanwhile, Aodh was left to endure his sentence with no one to rescue him, and certainly no way of knowing he could free himself.

I hope this explanation sheds light on any concerns you may feel.

Sincerest love & affection,

CS"

The Morrigan trembles with a strange mixture of anticipation and fear. The possibilities, she thinks to herself, are endless. A lovelorn Old God in her possession - if properly directed or controlled - could will anything into existence. He could will the Light into obscurity.

Her eyes stared blankly ahead, registering nothing, her mind solely centered on the power she would soon wield and the invincibility it all but guaranteed.


	12. For What It's Worth

_Publishing without proofreading! Woot! Forgive me…. will clean it up later…_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Dr. Lewis feels a cool tingle of anxiety race through her body.

Re-entering the Dal for round two she hesitates at the door. All she wanted from this evening was to slip into a raggedy t-shirt and some sweatpants and relax with her girlfriend - but Bo has other plans. Without so much as skipping a beat Bo's hand slips into hers and gently tugs her along. A gentle tug is all it takes, it seems, wherever Bo Dennis is concerned. "Lead me to the gates of hell," Lauren muses, "I will follow."

Entering the bar proper, Lauren averts her eyes, hoping to avoid the scrutiny of patrons. To her surprise no one seems to care they've returned - even after their uproarious exit. All par for the course for the unaligned Succubus and her wacky misadventures, or so it seems. Part of Lauren knows the fae crowd is unlikely to give much consideration to the comings or goings of humans, girlfriend status or not. She's hardly a blip on the radar.

Trick notices them first and and Lauren recoils under the heat of his gaze. When they join their comrades, Trick delicately yet sternly insists that his study is not the place for romantic liaisons.

"Yeah it is," Dyson says with a smile. The group chuckles.

"When it's absolutely necessary," he adds, nonchalantly lifting his pint glass to his lips. This time the reaction is more awkward; everyone knows what he means. Everyone except Lauren. To his credit, Trick tries to redirect the conversation.

"I've said what I had to say. Now then. Drinks, ladies?"

The brief moment of discomfort didn't escape Lauren's studious eye; she knows Dyson was alluding to _something - _some event, specifically. She was quick enough to catch the momentary flash of a wicked smile at the corner of his mouth, and the nervous wince that jolted across Bo's face. All the signs are there and the answer is painfully obvious. Where hasn't he had Bo first? One has to expect this kind of thing from dating within a small group - but too often Lauren has her nose rubbed in these pesky little passive-aggressive jabs. The quips and jokes that everyone seems to think escape her are just plain cruel at times.

Trick pours a couple tumblers of whisky and asks Dyson how the case is coming along. Dyson explains he's going to drive out and interview Cyril Smith in the morning. Trick's eyebrows dart upwards in shock, "Cyril Smith!"

Lauren takes a sip of her whisky and watches as Bo joins the conversation. "Who's Cyril Smith?"

Trick and Dyson exchange a brief but thoughtful stare. After several false starts Trick begins by saying, "He….Cyril…he's sort of famous for being infamous."

Bo inquires further, "What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

"Cyril comes from an old, old Fae family. Very old, very wealthy and politically connected family," he stops there for a moment, pondering what to say next. "He…. _A couple of centuries ago he was involved with a group of Hedonists_. I suppose that's what he's most known for. It's the kind of thing that'll earn you a reputation."

"Why do I get the feeling you're glossing over a lot of details?"

"Oh, I_ am_," he giggles, "Thank me later."

While Bo, Trick and Dyson carry on with tales of the wild and eccentric Cyril Smith, Lauren's interest starts to fade. She's had a long and difficult day, and is disappointed to be wasting her only chance to relax at a bar.

Suddenly she's aware she's had her back to Tamsin the entire time. With this awareness comes a social pressure to interact; her face radiates heat at the thought of what to say, how to initiate conversation with an otherwise unfriendly woman. Unfriendly is putting it lightly - carnivorous perhaps describes her better. Strangely enough, Tamsin is another odd-man-out in this clique but she's hardly an ally. The abrasive demeanor doesn't help. Lauren steals a glance over her shoulder and spies the blonde detective poring over crime scene photos.

"Mind if I have a look at those?" Lauren asks, timidly.

The cold blue stare of the valkyrie sends chills down Lauren's spine. Her mind starts racing, _"What is she thinking? Why is she staring at me like that?"_

"Hmph!" is all Tamsin has to say before taking a swig from her beer, closing the file folder and sliding it over to Lauren. Lauren thanks her and starts flipping through the photographs. She can feel Tamsin's eyes crawling all over her, criticizing her, eager to dissect her.

"I thought about getting on the horn and calling a squad out to collar you guys, indecent exposure and all," the detective finally says, "Nothing against you so much, it's your girlfriend I can't stand. _Buuuut_ I decided against it. Maybe next time you decide to settle for scraps you won't be so lucky."

"_Excuse_ me?" Lauren says, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock and dismay.

"Don't you ever get tired of her spotlight? Everyone's always ready to drop everything and race to her aid," Tamsin looks down the bar at Dyson, "You've got top-billing for now but the competition never lets up, does it?" Before Lauren can consider slapping her, she adds, "I don't know why you put up with it."

Lauren bows her head, feeling as though the wind has been knocked out of her. It's a legitimate question, she thinks to herself, swallowing a wave of self-doubt. When the lump in her throat clears - she pulls a photo from the pile and hands it to Tamsin, "I… I was thinking…I don't think this is an altar. The pattern of the stones imply it stood fairly tall…"

Curious that she's been denied a fight, Tamsin casually glances at the photo. And the next one she's handed, and the next one - thinking to herself _this doctor has some nerve_, like she hasn't spent all day searching for clues.

"…There's a program that'll figure these things out, we don't have it at the lab unfortunately but you input all the data, well there's a lot of details to consider here but physics aside, say you scan in these photographs, the program will map out the placement of the stones, and along with the basic info of how big they are and the distance apart from each other, the program will estimate their most likely original configuration - as well as the magnitude of force used to move them into their current position…"

"There's just one thing I'd like to ask you."

Lauren braces herself: "…Yes?"

_"…..SO?"_

"So I think what we are looking at here used to be a doorway, or a portal of some sort. That's just my guess. I was thinking about it earlier and I was going to mention it but without research it's just wild speculation."

Tamsin is fully aware she makes the doctor nervous. She makes a lot of people nervous. She uses it to her advantage. If the doctor were any less nerdy, her blushing and darting gaze might be considered charming. She smirks at the thought of seducing the doctor away from Bo, and whether or not it would prove any challenge. Humor aside, Tamsin finds herself momentarily dumfounded by the human doctor's observation. She marvels at the fact she's labored over these crime scene photos all day - knowing in her gut that there was something big hidden within, some detail just waiting to be found - _and yet she was completely blind to it_. Now that Dr. Lewis has pointed it out it's painfully clear, and while she's disappointed she can't take credit for it - she's at least relieved it wasn't her lovesick partner or worse, the succubitch.

Intimidated by the lack of response, Lauren flutters and abruptly closes the file. "I shouldn't have said anything. It's premature." As she turns to leave, Tamsin tugs at her jacket sleeve.

"_Wait a sec_, will ya?" Tamsin props an elbow up on the bar, assuming a much more diminutive posture. "I'm sorry about what I said. It was mean. You don't deserve that from me, or any of these clowns, really."

"Thank you for the apology," Lauren responds, cautiously, and perhaps with an air of suspicion.

"It's just that I get it. I'm only here now because if I don't tail the wolfman I get half the story in the morning, you know? That's no way to have a relationship. A _work relationship." _Tamsin prolongs her gaze and Lauren struggles to maintain it.

"I suppose that's very true."

"Damn straight it's true. Look at them - they act like we're not even here, and we're only here because they're here. You don't strike me as the type to hang out in bars."

"I'm not."

"But your girlfriend is."

"…"

"Look, I'm sorry, I've said too much again._ It's just_, nevermind, I'm sorry."

This time it's Lauren trying to glean meaning from those frosty blue eyes. Tamsin appears genuine. She wonders if the two of them have reached some sort of understanding. "It's okay," Lauren finally answers. She means it too; she never expected this or any bar to become the hub of her existence.

"Anyway, thanks for looking at these," Tamsin places her hand on the folder, "for what it's worth I think you're spot-on. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to break up the Glee Club over there.."

Tamsin smiles wickedly and leans back on her stool, "HEY MORON," she barks at Dyson, "…the Doc is on to somethin'!"


	13. The Bargain

Tamsin's in the passengers seat with the window down. She's gazing at the rolling countryside, fields of fruit trees and wire-fenced vineyards. Dyson occasionally spies glances at her, her sun-soaked blonde locks whipping about her face. He thinks she looks peaceful for a change.

He had hoped to conduct this interview by himself, but the Morrigan insisted the Dark be represented during this investigation. Yet again Dyson finds himself wondering if Tamsin knows more about this case and the players involved than she's letting on. Then again, after her display at the Dal last night - maybe she's just as clueless as he is.

And what a strange night at the Dal it was. He finally scored some one-on-one time with Bo only to have his partner take an uncanny interest in Dr. Lewis. As Lauren explained her theory about a portal, Dyson's eyes were on Tamsin, watching her watching Lauren. It was suspicious to say the least. He's pretty sure Bo noticed too.

He decides to break the silence: "So. Lauren's theory is pretty remarkable. I can't believe we missed it."

Tamsin turns to face him, her eyes shielded by amber-colored aviator glasses. "Yeah."

"She's a pretty invaluable asset."

"Yup."

"Anyway, it was nice to see the two of you getting along."

She smiles and turns her attention back to the scenery flying past the car. She knows he's fishing for information. She contemplates how to respond to his idiotic inquiry; she could just ignore him, or she could plant a little time-bomb for him to obsess over. She decides to go with something that can be endlessly analyzed without any satisfaction.

"She's pretty amazing," she says to the wind. She can feel wolf eyes burning holes in the back of her head, and silently hopes he doesn't drive them off the road.

* * *

Cyril's house and grounds staff had been given very specific instructions regarding the strange young man with thick wavy hair and weary eyes. First and foremost, if at all possible they were to avoid engaging with him. However, if confronted, they were to provide him any reasonable request and of course - keep Cyril informed of everything.

There had been a few mishaps. The other morning Cyril had been enjoying his afternoon soak in his bath house when he was startled by an awful bang and clatter in an adjoining room. Archemedeon burst into the mosaic-tiled bath, Cyril's prized white stag slung over his shoulder. "I've our supper!" The young man triumphantly chimed, "Isn't he marvelous?"

Staffers trailed in behind Archemedeon, each and every one mortified by the sight of the young man drenched in the sacred blood of the white stag. The stag, named Brynjarr, had been brought all the way from Mephisto's Glade deep in the Black Forest. A noble beast, and very likely the last of his kind, he was little more than a few moments of sport to the heartbroken youth.

Cyril struggled to contain his remorse. "He is, my boy, he is - Didier, would you kindly bring the stag to Chef Yamamoto?" Archemedeon proudly handed over his conquest. Later, Cyril ordered that they secretly be served venison for dinner and the stag buried in the family mausoleum. As the groundskeepers nervously labored to make excuses for the incident Cyril only said "Be happy he didn't find the unicorn."

Sitting on his patio enjoying his morning coffee, Cyril mulled over these events and valiantly wrestled with his feelings of doubt. Acclimating Archemedeon was proving difficult.

Cyril had accommodated every foreseeable external need a troubled young man could have. He'd provided a wardrobe worthy of a cosmopolitan - which was received warmly but befuddled Archemedeon. Cyril labored to explain the merits and purpose of underpants but the preferences of the modern world were lost on his pupil. Interestingly, it was during The Stag Incident that Cyril noticed Archemedeon chose to go hunting wearing only the much-disputed boxer-briefs and a fine Italian leather belt. It was a painful and costly lesson, but Cyril was beginning to wrap his head around the enormity of the torture Archemedeon had endured. Confined for several millennia to a rock in the perpetual winter of space - it was nothing short of a miracle that Archemedeon had any sense of mind left. Any resemblance to the world he'd left behind had long since vanished. Everything he'd ever loved or touched or held was not only gone from his life - the entire world he knew had been reduced to dust and paved over with strip malls.

A tiny voice in the back of Cyril's mind kept repeating that what the boy could use most was a father. A kindly and well-tempered gentleman to put his loving arm around the young man's shoulders and tell him everything will be okay. The sage advice of a father could help heal Archemedon's heart better than a designer wardrobe. Is it really any wonder he went hunting in his underpants? It was probably the first moment of normalcy he'd had in thousands of years. However Cyril wasn't ready to listen to this voice; he had been many things throughout his life, but none of them involved being a parent.

There was a woman once, a very long time ago, he often forgets how long it's been - he loved her more than the world. Cyril had spent several years in the monastery studying and praying. He'd taken a vow of silence and celibacy, and had forsaken all worldly goods. He was a vessel dedicated to god, every effort belonged to god, and performed good works dedicated to god. And then one winter morning he saw her; she was shivering through her wool cloak. He and his fellow brothers had come to town to sell their beer and had eager crowds waiting to have their pails filled. With his brothers distracted, he brought her a blanket from their cart - it wasn't much, but the act of kindness brought tears to her eyes. His heart clamored at the sight of those tears, and he made a silent vow to guard her happiness until death claimed him.

Months passed. They routinely met in secret. He brought her flowers he had pressed in books and other tiny trinkets. Every single one was a treasure in her eyes. Together they discovered the mystery and awakening of true love, and Cyril damned any god that would have him deprived of such bliss. They first made love in a mill behind barrels of grain.

"Will you be my wife?" he asked, the first words he'd spoken in a dozen years.

"Yes, a thousand times yes," she responded joyfully, "Nothing could make me happier."

They held each other tightly, as if the cosmos would step in and tear them apart at any moment.

"I want to have your baby," she said after some silence.

Cyril was shocked; he'd never imagined such a thing. His head swooned at the notion of putting a child in her belly. He envisioned their family life together, raising sons and daughters, perhaps on a farm somewhere. Or maybe he would learn a trade. Life had meaning, and suddenly he understood the importance of hope, not prayers. Years of prayers and sacrifice had not brought him an ounce of the joy and fulfillment he knew now.

But it was too late. They'd been found out. They were waiting for him when he returned to their meeting place. They beat him within an inch of his life, and after he was returned to the monastery, he was beaten again. He was ex-communicated. She was burned alive for being a seductress.

Cyril chose to stop remembering at this point. With shaking hands he folded his napkin in half, thinking to himself that the past and the present often touch in the similar way. Just as he had dragged one corner of the cloth to meet another, so he had reached into the past and dragged it kicking and screaming into the present.

Just as his mind could pull ancient memories into the present, his heart dwelled solely in the past. "It is the devil's bargain," he muttered in a low voice, "The price of love is loss."


	14. Visitors

_Hello everyone. I'm sorry to say I wasn't paying very close attention yesterday, and chopped off the very ending of this chapter. Hopefully it'll read a bit better now that it's restored, or rather, it moves things along a bit better than the way I had it._

_Thanks, again, for all the reviews and messages. I enjoy hearing your thoughts. I'm also pretty intrigued by the positive response to Tamsin & Lauren. I honestly didn't envision them getting together for this fic, and if anything, I've hinted that Tamsin can be fairly manipulative. But it's a fun idea to play around with - I would think Lauren's smart enough to avoid dangerous women!_

_Never say never, as the saying goes. I'll certainly consider doing a one-off if anyone suggests an interesting prompt. I invite you to PM me with ideas. I'm hoping this fic will finish off around chapter 20, and after that I have no more writing ideas._

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Several times throughout the night Lauren was roused by nightmares - fires ravaging the halls of the compound, an inescapable blaze systematically blocking every exit. Thick clouds of smoke were blurring her vision and threatening to suffocate her. Staving off panic, she crawls through winding hallways, stumbling past charred corpses, their black contorted faces mouthing silent screams.

And then, suddenly, she's back at the downtown high-rise. She's looking for Bo. She asks the security guards if they've seen Bo but they don't even acknowledge her, they turn away and go about their business.

She decides to take the elevator to penthouse.

The mirrored elevator.

The doors part.

Tamsin is inside, reflected on every surface.

Their eyes clash like daggers as they each take a corner.

Lauren doesn't want to be caught looking at her nemesis, her girlfriend's nemesis, but she steals a glance at the fierce, wiry blonde. Arms folded defensively. Strong arms. Bold shoulders criss-crossed with a brown leather holster. And a pistol tucked behind the curve of her breast.

Tamsin turns and Lauren quickly looks away. Their eyes meet in each other's reflection. That smug smile.

Lauren's heart is pounding. She struggles to appear calm, measuring her breathing, but she's light-headed and feels flushed. She looks away, again finding Tamsin's reflection. She shuffles nervously, heel toe, heel toe. Tamsin strides up to her, deliberately invading her personal space. Lauren recoils against the wall of the elevator, her eyes flutter before their gaze sinks to the floor. The valkyrie leans in, her mouth so close to Lauren's ear she can feel the heat of her breath, "_Boo_," she whispers.

Lauren gasps before the joke registers, and just as she starts to laugh Tamsin's lips press hard against hers. It's a long, deep kiss, and when Tamsin pulls away, Lauren can see that her expression has softened. Those eyes. The coolest blue she's ever seen.

Tamsin takes hold of Lauren's waist, and shudders of arousal streak through Lauren's body. The valkyrie leans into her, forcing her to feel the entire length of her. When her mouth returns to Lauren's - it's met with raw hunger.

Lauren's arms encircle the detective's neck, her hand cupping a mop of blonde waves. The kisses become more frantic, more possessed as their passion consumes them. Tamsin grabs hold of Lauren's shirt and rips it open, the sound of errant buttons bouncing off the floor and walls of the elevator. Exposed, she's desperate for Tamsin's touch. Her body is aching to be touched. When at last Tamsin's hands claim their prize, Lauren groans in ecstasy..

Lauren opens her eyes and blinks hard.

Her body is very much awake - and hungry for what her dream was promising.

After a moment she turns her head and looks at Bo, still asleep and at peace.

* * *

The detectives are walked out back to the patio. Cyril is seated at a long table covered with white cloth. Several bottles of champagne are out, and some plates with remainders from lunch. Most interesting of all is the young man passed out and sleeping at the table.

Cyril stands to greet them when they arrive. "Detective," he says, shaking hands with Dyson.

"Tamsin darling your beauty is eternal."

"Thank you ..Mr. Smith."

"Oh, I apologize for being so informal, please forgive me, detective."

Tamsin nods and smiles, slightly embarrassed. She smolders at the thought of Dyson using this flub against her.

"Mr. Smith - as you know there was a fire at one of your buildings, in part of your penthouse actually," Dyson coolly states. "There were seventeen fatalities. We'd like to know about your affiliation with these people?"

Cyril smiled widely, "Well - I suppose you could say I knew some of them intimately, others not so much."

"We're sorry for your loss. Losses," Tamsin replies.

"Thank you love."

"Are you saying that _you_ were hosting a party?" Dyson continued.

"_In absentia_. It's not unusual for me, you understand, it is sort of what I'm known for.. wine, music, ecstasy."

"Uh huh. So you weren't present the night of the fire?"

"I'm afraid not, detective."

"You're aware several calls were made from your penthouse?"

"Why would that surprise me? If I open my home to friends and guests I would hardly bar them from using my phone."

"Are you able to provide us with a list of people who were at your penthouse that evening?"

"I'm sure my secretary can get that for you. I do very little of my own scheduling."

"Who informed you of the fire?"

"My secretary."

"When?"

"The following morning, I believe."

"You believe?"

"Yes, I believe it was the following morning. Before or after breakfast cocktails I can't say for certain."

"So, in your opinion, Cyril, this was just a party gone wrong? A bad accident?"

"I'm sure the party was _splendid_ while it lasted. But yes, a terrible and tragic accident, don't you think?"

"I'm not sure what I think. The walls of that little compound you have nestled up there are three feet thick in every direction with no windows. That seems a bit odd to me."

Cyril takes a long drag of champagne from a fluted glass. He sighs gaily from satisfaction.

"Well detective, I'm sure an outside perspective such as yours would find it highly unusual. But I assure you it's purpose is most mundane. It is, what do they call them these days? A safe room."

"A safe room," Dyson repeats.

"Yes."

"Are you in any danger, Mr. Smith?"

Cyril peers over his sunglasses at the detectives.

"I don't need to actually live in the safe room to feel safe, there's safety in simply knowing it's there if I need it."

"So how do you suppose your safe room caught on fire?"

"I certainly have no clue."

"Because your safe room was the least safe place for those people to be that night."

Cyril said nothing in response to this. He wanted to feel anger. Instead he felt nothing. "I'm afraid I don't have too much more to say about it. I don't have answers for you."

Suddenly, the young man at the table started snoring. All three heads turned in unison.

"Is he alright?" Dyson asked.

"He's fine. A little drunk."

"Is he old enough to drink?"

"He's old enough for a lot of things. I resent what you're implying."

"I meant no offense."

"Hmm."

* * *

"Well that was a fucking waste of time," Dyson snarls.

The pair of detectives are walking shoulder to shoulder, their manservant escort guiding them through Cyril's palatial home. Tamsin looks at him sideways, "You were expecting a treasure-trove of info? Professor Plum, in the library, holding a gas can?"

"Excuse me, you could have asked your _buddy_ to give up what he knows. _Anything_."

"I suppose your boss has never taken you to society functions, debutante that you are? Get over yourself. I've met Cyril before. It's not my fault you never bothered to ask me, _your dark-aligned partner_, if I have any knowledge on a person of interest. _Dumbass_."

Dyson sighs from exhaustion. "Fair enough. That's fair enough. You're right."

"_Thank you_. Was that so hard to say?" He gives her a mock frown in response.

After a brief silence Tamsin startles both parties by exclaiming in a loud, excited voice, "OH MY GOD..._Is that a real Klimt_?" She points in the direction of a large painting hung on the east wall, three naked figures woven in flowers.

She repeats herself to the manservant, her hand raised to her lips in astonishment. "Is that a genuine Klimt?"

The humble servant is all too eager to brag on his master's behalf. "Yes, miss. Mr. Smith knew the artist personally. He has one of the largest private collections."

"How wonderful!" she says, clutching her purse to her chest.

Once outside Dyson teases her; "Oh, Mr. Smith! What big paintings you have!"

When they reach their vehicle Tamsin tosses her bag into the backseat. "My turn or do you want honors?"

"You go ahead," he says.

She climbs behind the wheel and fires up the engine. A small group of mansion staff watch as she pulls the car around and heads back down the dusty road that led her and her partner to the sprawling opulence of Manor Smith.

"Hand me my purse, will ya?"

"Oh come on," Dyson responds.

"**Give me** my damn purse, jeez, I didn't realise I was _driving Miss Lazy."_

_"Funny." _ Dyson reaches in back and pulls the bag into his lap. He opens it for her and she reaches inside, pulling out a binder of papers.

"What's this?" He asks when she drops it into his hands.

"I dunno. Looks like a manuscript. I lifted it from Cyril's house when his half-wit manservant was gushing over Gustav Klimt."

"And here I thought you were a fan of the arts."

Dyson reads the title page out loud: "Darkest Days: The Transference Of Godly Essence..." Dyson fans through the pages, "What the hell?"

Tamsin exhales through her nose, and rather thoughtfully starts to explain, "Cyril is this, well, everyone knows about the Bacchanal stuff. But Cyril is like a salmon swimming against the current. Maybe because he's seen everything and done everything - and I mean everything - he sort of views himself as this sort of professional scholar. He studies fae antiquity and stuff, and writes about it."

"He wants people to take him seriously."

"Well you know he deserves to be taken seriously, really. The life he's had? Shit. But yeah, maybe it's about redemption, I don't know, he wants people to think of him as an intellectual. An historian."

"So what possessed you to steal this?"

"Did you notice how spotless his place was? Nothing else was out of place. Just that. I figured maybe it was...hidden in plain sight."


	15. The Devil Is In The Details

Routine is a refuge for the worried mind. A body can wake, shower, take breakfast and meander through its day preoccupied with superficial concerns and simply endure the passing of time. It's urban survival at it's most basic level. One stuffs themselves into a tiny box and hammers out an existence despite trauma or loneliness or whatever adversity daily ordinary living assaults them with.

These are the thoughts that drift through the mind of Lauren Lewis as she brushes her teeth over Bo's sink. She regards her reflection in the faded, cracked mirror. Does she see loneliness? If she can see it can anyone else?

It's not loneliness, precisely. She has a lover. It's more like the constant, nagging ache that signals the breakdown of a relationship. It's the inescapable hurt that lurks behind every corner, waiting, always waiting, paralyzing you with doubt and robbing you of the words to say '_I miss you'_ or '_we need to talk'_.

She spits into the sink.

Her dream had left her frustrated. She'd considered rousing Bo by initiating sex but couldn't quite bring herself to do it; the part of her able to distinguish harmless fantasy from genuine guilt wouldn't allow it.

Lauren sighs at her reflection.

She's had sex dreams involving peculiar choices for partners before, she understands the psychology behind it. But why was Tamsin striking such a nerve for her? Was her mind just catching up to what her subconscious had been clamoring for? She finally admits to herself that she's noticed Tamsin's attractiveness before. Heck, who hasn't? But she quickly reminds herself that Tamsin's attractiveness is merely an observation, an acknowledgement of what is pleasing to the eye. Indeed, the counter-balance to Tamsin's attractiveness is her venomous personality. Lauren quickly concedes that obviously the toxicity of Tamsin's personality is all bravado, likely a defense mechanism.

Lauren closes her eyes for a moment and returns to the dream. She allows herself to relive being pushed against the elevator wall, Tamsin's hard body pressing into hers. She languishes in the sensation of Tamsin's wet mouth working it's way inside her shirt collar and along her neck.

When she looks into her reflection again Lauren can see quite plainly that she's missing that sort of passion with Bo. There was a time when they couldn't keep their hands off each other - but their lives both together and separate have grown more complicated. Quick snogs in the dingy back rooms of pubs or backseats of cars aren't a substitute for real intimacy, they are merely a means to an end. Without intimacy, without communication - their relationship is starved of nourishment. It could linger this way indefinitely with minimal sustenance before finally dying, Lauren thinks to herself, at which point all love between them will be irretrievably lost. It's not enough to let a relationship survive; one has to nurture it constantly to keep it alive and kicking.

The question is whether or not Bo really cares. By committing herself to Lauren - is she clinging to some lingering delusion that her human upbringing defines part of who she is? Lauren estimates the probability is high but disintegrating over time. As Bo immerses herself more and more in Fae culture her interest in all things human is bound to evaporate. This current case is a prime example; in no way, shape or form does it involve Bo - yet she's fascinated by it, eagerly anticipating each new shred of information.

By the time the driver arrives to cart her back to the compound, Lauren is exhausted from contemplating the clusterfuck that is her love life. She's numb for most of the wordless drive back to her bird cage, her eyes burning from repressed tears. What she wants, and she admits this to herself at the expense of tremendous guilt, is for Bo to ignore her heritage. What she wants is to have these external complications that terrorize their lives stripped away - and be as they simply are - two women in love.

* * *

Cyril drearily eyes Archemedeon as the boy expertly lifts the turntable cartridge and resets the needle. He finds it intriguing how the young man is so taken by this particular Stan Getz record. Music tames the wild beast, he muses. He's impressed also how the boy can be so intoxicated and still so nimble, so gentle with a technology leagues beyond his comprehension. "Such a delicate soul," Cyril quietly observes.

The older gentleman massages his brow, pained with worry. He takes a few greedy gulps of wine as he drowns himself further, contemplating the events he's set in motion. He's come to understand the joy that comes from watching a young person discover the world around him; Archemedeon may not be a child, but for all practical purposes he is more or less an unfrozen caveman. He is an ancient ghost tossed into the world of the living, flabbergasted and easily mystified. Cyril has painstakingly introduced him to the modern world, bit by tender bit, his heart swelling with pride at seeing the young man rediscover the thrill of being alive. Each tiny miracle unveiled for Archemedeon, every obscure mystery unraveled by science is a merciless swipe at the god that imprisoned him. Cyril constantly reassures the youth that the reign of the gods is long over and that he is now absolutely safe.

Of course that isn't completely true.

Cyril's primary method of dealing with Archemedeon was still to ensure a constant level of sedation. Cocktails of mood stabilizers and anti-depressants were administered throughout the day, reinforced by a steady supply of wine. This kept the difficult, unanswerable questions at bay, although sometimes Archemedeon still managed.

"Is it like they say? Is Muirenn really dead? Is she dead?"

These questions would at times come out of nowhere, and at other times - when the depth of Archemedeon's anguish was so palpable Cyril's own heart would sink in his chest - the boy would sit for hours in perfect silence. Cyril was losing his ability to willfully mislead him. Having to be mindful of Archemedeon's loss had forced Cyril to look at and consider his own grief, and in doing so the two souls found a strange comfort in each other.

Unfortunately, Cyril also has his personal safety to consider. After all, he didn't want a repeat of the penthouse incident. It was bad enough that the staff regarded Archemedeon as a walking time-bomb - an air of nervous anticipation hangs over the mansion like a death shroud.

Finally - there is the unrelenting persistence of the Morrigan, demanding the returns on her investment. Cyril had once suggested it might take years before Archemedeon would be mentally stable enough to choose the merits of the dark fae over the light. He can still hear her screams in the recesses of his mind. In all of this Evony was very much a wild card, one he could not easily manipulate or delay indefinitely. She'd been patient with him so far, but her thirst for power frequently compels her to act with wicked impetuousness. Her methods were rarely delicate or subtle. He couldn't be sure exactly what lengths the Morrigan would go to in order to claim what she viewed as hers - but he knew her unsympathetic strong-arming could potentially lead to unparalleled disaster.

Cyril drains his glass, his hand quivering from anxiety.

"Cyril?" The voice is solemn and low. "Why am I here?"

Once again, the needle is lifted and set back to the beginning of the song. The young man never turns around to face Cyril, his question hanging in the air as the tune "Tonight I Shall Sleep With A Smile On My Face" softly begins again.

At first Cyril is dumfounded by the nature of the question, _Why are you here? In this house? With me? Why are any of us here? Why is life full of such pain and suffering? _But then something deep inside his gut collapsed, and he felt a wave of sheer horror grip the core of his being. _Its not fair, _Cyril thought, _is this the culmination of my existence? Is this the punishment Fortuna would weave for me? Have I betrayed my own nature and in doing so, brought about the tools to end all times?_

Teary-eyed, he responds too honestly:_ "You are here because of my insufferable need to defend my life."_


	16. All You Ever Do Is Walk Away

_"Where's sugartits?"_

There's a bang and a clatter, and then Kenzi appears, one hand stretched across her face - the other acting as a rudder of sorts, guiding her through the the cluttered path to the kitchen.

"Where's Sugartits?" she repeats, perhaps as a means of echo-location while she seeks out the coffee pot.

Eyes half-closed and mumbling incoherently, she drags a mug down from the shelf and fills it. She slumps down next to Bo, who slides the sugar over to her. Kenzi proceeds to mix her half-coffee half-sugar hangover cure.

"She said she had to go, she said she had a lot of work to do…she wanted an early start.." Bo clears her throat. Having given these words voice they seem to make even less sense. Work had never taken priority over their warm bed before. Even with Lauren's infallible professionalism, she was reliably frisky upon first waking up and was always willing to blame her tardiness on traffic. But today when Bo finally awoke Lauren was already half-dressed and couldn't be persuaded to come back to bed. Bo knew something was wrong.

"I was wondering. I didn't wake up to the usual whip-cracks and howler monkey screams."

Bo gives Kenzi a sideways glance, not wanting to acknowledge her fears. But for all her aloofness, Kenzi is miraculously astute, and throws her arm around Bo's neck. "Tell me, Bobo. Wassup. What's on your mind."

"I think I may have pushed my luck too far," Bo drearily admits.

"Whoa, I thought Saint Lauren of Bottomless Patience and Inexhaustible Lust was okay with everything?"

Bo playfully gives her friend a shove. "_What she knows about she's okay with."_

"Uh oh."

"No, no I didn't mean it like that. It's a more about me than anything. I haven't exactly been forthcoming about everything that's been going on in my life. I mean, the Dawning, _you know_, Fuck."

"We were all really afraid for you Bo," Kenzi's tone is suddenly very serious, "I'd have been lost without you. Her too, I think. All of us."

_"I know, I know,_ and I am so grateful for you guys._ Really._ I have the best friends in the world, I don't know what I did to deserve you guys."

The conversation hangs there as the two women stare into their coffees. Finally, Bo says what she's been wanting to say:

"This will make me sound like I'm truly awful, I know it. But I just…couldn't deal with Lauren during the Dawning. I couldn't deal with someone being that attached to me. Every time I looked at her I just felt this awful guilt, you know? Like I didn't know what was going to happen, I could have been killed or ended up some demonic slobbering underfae, _and where would that leave her?_ I mean, I know she was just worried about me, and afraid that she couldn't help in any way - But sometimes when she'd hold me it was like she was holding on to me _for the last time, the very last time._ _I'd be fucking her and I'd look at her face and I'd see that she was crying…"_

Kenzi's eyes were wide with shock.

"It just tore me up to see how she was suffering because of me, and honestly, it was just more stress than I could deal with. I know how selfish and cruel that sounds, but all I could think was that I needed to get through the Dawning_ no matter what_, even if it involved avoiding her. Now that everything is over and the dust is settling - I think it may have driven a wedge between us. I just don't know. We haven't been clicking lately."

"Sounds to me like you need to play doctor with your doctor."

Bo chuckles, "Yeah, _yeah I do._ I'm just not sure where to begin."

"I hear some chicks dig flowers. If it were me I'd say a 20 ounce prime rib and a bottle of pinot would rub me the right way but since we're talking Doctor Hotpants here I'd say stick with flowers. Yeah, probably flowers."

"Probably flowers," Bo giggles, her eyes smiling at the thought of greeting Lauren with a bouquet.

Bo puzzles over Lauren, realizing she doesn't even know if Lauren likes flowers. Does she? She must. If nothing else she almost certainly has a scientific appreciation for them. Should she buy roses? Would that be tacky? Predictable? What about something simpler, more modest. Bo loses herself daydreaming of the perfect romantic evening; she envisions surprising Lauren with bright, delicate long-stemmed blooms wrapped in tissue and decorated with ribbon. She imagines Lauren's crooked smile, her beautiful brown eyes sparkling with emotion, and hungrily embracing her with a warm, extended kiss.

What Bo imagines next is pure smut, frantically undressing her girlfriend and throwing her onto the bed. _Bo's eyes narrow just thinking about it_, anticipation building. She bolts up from the table and looks around for her jacket and keys, eager to put her plan into action.

"Happy humping!" Kenzi shouts as the front door slams shut.

* * *

"I'm going to grab something to eat. You want anything?"

Dyson looks up at Tamsin with tired eyes. The two of them have been hunkered down at the precinct, chapters of Cyril's manuscript divided between them.

"Nah, but thanks for asking. I was going to bring this over to Trick and see if any of this makes sense to him. I'll grab a bite there."

She pauses for a moment, waiting for her invitation, and when it doesn't come she shoves her way through a crowd of co-workers out into the parking lot. A few of them turn to gawk at the blonde iceberg as she struts outside. Eyes roll.

When she settles into her dilapidated truck she's reminded of her true purpose in exiting the cop-shop; pissed off and ready for a fight, she calls the Morrigan. Evony answers with fake cheerfulness.

"Tamsin sweetie, how've you been?"

"Cut the crap. I want to know what you're playing at. Cyril was totally expecting us. Was sending me over there some little ploy of yours?"

"Honey, you are so suspicious. You really need to work on your trust issues."

"I don't expect you to _care_ that I don't like having my time wasted, but at least try and _get it into your head_ that I have a job to do."

"You have your cushy little job as long as I say you do, so please, _spare me the tears_. I needed a tiny warning shot fired over Cyril's battleship and I think your visit may have been just the incentive he needed."

Tamsin's mind reels as she struggles to connect the dots between the Morrigan and Cyril. She's listed as a chief financier of Cyril's research according to his manuscript. What exactly was she funding? It's hard to believe she has any interest in ancient fae history. Tamsin reasons that Cyril must have something the Morrigan wants, something she paid for. Either the investment was a bust, or Cyril is unwilling to deliver his part of the bargain. She reaches for her bag and pulls out the manuscript.

"So…godly essence, huh?" Tamsin stabs in the dark.

_"What did you say?"_ The pitch of the Morrigan's voice goes up a notch. This is a naturally occurring phenomenon, indicating rage.

"You heard me," Tamsin says, deciding to up the ante, "How much did he soak you for? I mean, what were you thinking, transference of godly essence?"

_"What did that doddering fool tell you?" _

"We covered the basics, and then he was kind enough to give us a copy of his manuscript. It's brilliant, have you read it?"

There's a sharp squeal suddenly in Tamsin's earpiece. She jerks her phone away from her face and stares at it blankly. She has no way of knowing that at the other end the Morrigan slammed the smartphone against her mahogany desk with all the fury of a banshee.

The detective leans back in her seat contemplating what she can gather from this brief but heated exchange. She feels her hunch is right - The Morrigan is neither a fan of the arts nor an admirer of academia. There has to be some sort of tangible personal benefit in all this mess.

Staring at the scattered pages of manuscript sprawled across her passenger seat, Tamsin reflects on the few facts she has to go on. Dr. Lewis' autopsy report had been waiting at the station when she and Dyson returned from their drive to the countryside. Both dark and light fae died in the fire. Most of them were renown intellectuals, artists and writers. An odd mix of fae for the Morrigan to be interested in, but certainly they were peers of Cyril's.

Tamsin turns the ignition and her truck belches and rumbles to life.

She drives absent-mindedly, pondering who or what the Morrigan and Cyril brought through that makeshift portal up in the penthouse. Of course, the 'portal' is purely circumstantial, but it's a puzzle piece that makesinfinite sense. The more she drives the more she's convinced Cyril left his manuscript to deliberately be discovered. She thinks of that boy at his breakfast table, passed out drunk - not necessarily unusual for Cyril given his reputation - but it's a reputation he's struggled to shed. Had she and Dyson been face to face with the Morrigan's latest super-weapon and scourge of light fae everywhere?

Much to her own surprise she finds she's driven herself to the light fae compound. She chuckles at herself - but quickly justifies the unannounced visit by considering she has nowhere else to go for advice. Dyson is consulting Trick's expertise after all, and on a purely logical and scientific level - it makes sense to consult the good doctor. Human origin aside, the whole concept of the portal - the crown jewel in this case as far as clues go - was her idea. "Yeeeah," she grunts just under her breath. She checks her face in the rearview, straightens the leather of her jacket collar, and smiles at herself.

The sun is just starting to set, and it's unseasonably windy.


	17. Toil And Trouble

_Sorry for the delay - has there been a delay? I try to post once a week at least. But I've had the flu, bleh... Have some vitamin C and Enjoy._

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The postman rings twice, they say. Tamsin, in glaring contrast, pounds like a banshee set upon by a horde of ballywogs and bugbears. Lauren opens the door half-expecting the person on the other side to be on fire.

"Tamsin."

Her surprise ripples like shockwaves through the surrounding air. It doesn't take a detective to deduce Lauren's been caught off guard - however this particular detective is cocky and self-assured, and charmed by the doctor's nervous gestures. Lauren blushes on sight, averts her eyes and tucks a swatch of hair behind her ear.

Tamsin cocks a devilishly curious eyebrow.

"'Hey Detective, come on in,' Sure thing Doc, thanks," Tamsin says mockingly. She breezes past Lauren, still petrified at the door. Tamsin takes a look around and announces, "Sweet little nest you've got here. Does it come with room service?"

Lauren softly closes the door and turns to face her unexpected guest. Funny that she should magically appear like this, as if the detective were picking up on some sort of brain waves, a psychic connection of sorts. Lauren contemplates whether their brief exchange at the Dal affected them both, and that she's not alone with her inexplicable attraction. Meanwhile, Tamsin spins around on her boot heel, tilts her head and with hands on her hips she says, "Am I interrupting you? I'm interrupting you."

Lauren's lips part as she struggles to formulate a response - but before she can even answer Tamsin continues: "Do you seriously wear your lab coat while you're at home? I'd work in my underwear if I were you."

Lauren swallows hard but tries to conceal it. She cracks an awkward smile.

"I don't wear my lab coat when I'm studying dolphins."

"Oh really?"

"No, it's strictly for research porpoises."

"Oh my god. Seriously? You are such a nerd."

Despite Tamsin's snarky response she's smiling, and it helps to diffuse the tension Lauren feels. How strange it is to have the detective here in her living room - her presence has dominated Lauren's imagination most of the day.

"Well, yes, but the truth is I tend to get a fair amount of unannounced visitors so underwear wouldn't be very practical." She knows Tamsin doesn't really give a damn but she feels the need to explain herself anyway.

There's a moment of awkward silence. Lauren boldly manages to maintain some prolonged eye contact. Oh, those cold blue eyes, she thinks to herself - one gets the sense they see more than they should but they reveal nothing. Flustered, Lauren walks over to her desk and takes a seat.

"Is there something I can help you with detective?"

Tamsin glides over to Lauren's desk with the grace of a gazelle and perches on a corner. She produces Cyril's manuscript from her bag and gingerly places it before the anxious doctor.

"So, long story. Wolfman and I went to check out that guy Cyril you heard everyone talking about. While we were at his place I lifted this."

Lauren begins leafing through the pages and eventually comments, "He's an academic?"

"He's - his type of fae - feeds off pleasure. But he's sort of a complicated guy."

Lauren looks to be completely absorbed in her reading, so Tamsin carries on unaware of whether or not she's being heard. It feels too strange to sit in silence and wait.

"He's really old. I don't know how old, but he's old. And I guess maybe after a few hundred years things that used to get you off lose their magic, so he's sort of a wise old brainiac now."

Lauren is still engrossed by the book, so Tamsin slides off the desk and starts exploring her surroundings.

"Anyway, I kinda think he left that manuscript out for us to find. The basic gist of it is that Cyril has spent a hella lot of time reading ancient fae lore, and found a few stories that sort of expanded on the mythology most of us learned when we were kids. Like, I don't know anyone who takes that ancient history shit too seriously, but who knows, right? So, like I was saying, Cyril found a few stories that seemed to indicate that these 'old gods' could imbue others with their…godly abilities."

Lauren looks up and notices Tamsin staring at the art on her wall. She's not sure why exactly but she feels a twinge of nervousness.

"So big deal, right? Well, a couple of these stories take place during the End Times, when the gods are all killed. One of the gods was busy punishing his daughter and her human lover by exiling them to the sun and moon, respectively."

When Tamsin turns around she sees she's captured the doctor's watchful eye. "Do you suppose heterosexual women hang sketches of partially nude men in their homes? Is the male form art? I tend to view it as more utilitarian."

"It came with the apartment."

"God, I should hope so."

"So… this is the "Star-Crossed Lovers" I'm seeing referred to here?"

"Yes," Tamsin resumes. "So I guess you can't just toss your daughter and her boyfriend into space and expect them to _live_, you have to given them your godly powers. _THEN_, when your parents show up to kill you for being an evil douchebag god, you quickly try and save you own ass by bringing your daughter back and the "godly essence" you gave her."

The detective resumes her seat on Lauren's desk and playfully adjusts the braid in her hair. Lauren's brain switches over from academia to barely concealable lust.

"End of story? Not for Cyril. Scholars have been reading these moldy books for centuries and no one has ever bothered to wonder about the boyfriend."

The Lust-O-Meter in Lauren's mind swiftly switches back to Intellect. _"The boyfriend…"_

"That's right." She leans over and taps her forefinger on the manuscript. "_That's what this is all about._ Cyril figured out that this Archemedeon guy could possibly still be right where the gods left him. And that's what I think this whole case is about, how to get him back. I'm pretty sure they succeeded, too."

"And Archemedeon doesn't realize he's…a god?"

"Apparently not."

"Well, if this is truly the case…I could see how certain parties would be interested in acquiring that kind of power."

"Yeah," Tamsin says with in a solemn tone. It registers that she's hardly ever heard the detective so plainly serious before.

"Who else have you told about this? Who else knows?"

"Just you, Doc. You were my first stop."

"...Why me?"

"Good question. I suppose I trust your judgment, considering the whole portal-thing was your idea. If you hadn't figured that out I might still be guessing what this stupid book was about."

"Thank you," Lauren bows her head appreciatively before adding, "I'm sure you would have come to the same conclusion yourself, perhaps with some decent rest and fresh eyes."

"Yeah," Tamsin snarkily laughs.

"You need to tell everyone - the Ash - this is big, you need tell everyone.."

"Yeah, I know. Time to let the Super Friends do their thing." Tamsin's fingers are intertwined between her knees and there's a stern, possibly exhausted expression across her face.

"You seem disappointed Tamsin."

"Nah," she winces with her usual bravado, "They can have the heroics. But we're the ones who figured this out."

Throughout this visit Lauren has personally experienced several biological responses to certain physical cues, some of them imagined but some undoubtedly very real. While physical attraction can be fairly compelling, it's once the heart and mind are engaged an infatuation becomes difficult to ignore. This statement by the detective genuinely hits home. Lauren has quietly endured the suffering over knowing this inequity exists, without any hope or expectation that things ever be different. All this time she's blamed this divisive rift on her humanity, but in light of Tamsin having similar feelings, she's forced to consider the problem may not be hers. She suddenly feels a warmth and kinship towards Tamsin that hadn't been present before. It frightens her.

Lauren awkwardly turns her head from side to side, as if praying to become distracted by something, anything. Tamsin sees she's hit a nerve. She knew she would.

"Hey….hey," the detective says, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm fine, really," she stumbles through the words, "You're - very kind. Thank you."

"Let's go to the Dal and spread the news."

Lauren stares blankly.

"C'mon. Grab your coat." Tamsin gets up and struts towards the door while Lauren remains frozen in silence. "Bo…" is all she can think to say.

"I would imagine Wolfman already called her. She's probably already there. But go ahead, call your girl. Tell her we'll meet her there."

Lauren is deeply conflicted. Superficially it sounds like an innocent offer, but there's no guarantee that it truly is. She's curious, and feels guilty about being curious. And of course - part of her is hoping Tamsin will make a move. She asks herself what she would do, would she resist, and she finds she's unwilling to answer herself honestly. This is it, the rational side of her brain screams, this is it, this is where the betrayal begins, it begins with a choice. Simultaneously, the part of her brain swimming in hormones is commandeering her body, driving her to get up and grab her keys.

"Okay. I'll get my coat."


	18. A Tapestry Of Curses

_So, a funny thing happened on the way to publishing this update. I began this story with a clear ending in mind, but over the last few chapters - and this is based partially on feedback - I started to develop the opinion my story was becoming, well, more of a story rather than fanfic. Bo and Lauren were merely characters in a larger story, and let's face it - you guys are reading because you like Lost Girl. So, I started to get a little nervous about there not being enough Bo and Lauren and even Tamsin. I also started to get a little swayed by how Tamsin was being received, and wondered if I should do something other than what I'd originally intended. All of this piled up into one big mess a' writer's block. _

_Also, I know I wanted to finish around 20 chapters but with the additional character building I'm not sure I'll make it. Maybe 22 chapters, dunno. _

_Anyway, sorry for the delay. This chapter is cobbled together from a bunch of different versions I wrote, I may do some tweaking and editing in the next day or two. I hope email alerts don't go out every time I correct a typo…?_

_And lastly, if any of you are on twitter feel free to add/follow me, hitherto11_

_Thanks for reading._

_/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-_

His voice is low, making him sound like a hollow man when he speaks. The first few words resound like a bell but then the record gets scratchy and indecipherable; Archemedeon whets his palette with more wine.

"She was betrothed, you know, to another. One of her cousins."

Cyril had been adrift in a daydream. His eyes had wandered to the statue of Heloise that stood in the corner of his library. He'd had it commissioned while she was still living, and after it's completion he'd retired his human name of Abelard to a coffin filled with a stolen corpse. It grieved him to leave her in such a state, their lust for one another had caused them both considerable scandal. However it was now, in their adulthood, having each attained some notoriety and some success that it seemed perhaps their fates could at last be united happily; though he may have longed for it, Cyril believed it was impossible. And so, an illness was concocted, a corpse was found, a funeral box was stuffed and sealed. Cyril put many miles between himself and France but he felt Heloise's agony distinctly until her frail frame succumbed to it's mortal end. She was buried with a stranger's bones and enshrined for all to behold and marvel at. Cyril was sometimes haunted by the thought that perhaps death is not truly absolute, and that some shred of awareness lingers behind trapped inside its deceased vessel. He thought of Heloise damned to an even more horrid confinement than prison - entangled with the remains of some feckless goon. The merest thought filled his gut with unrestrained horror.

Yet he lived on.

"What did you say?" Cyril grumbled, his bleary eyes slowly focusing on Archmedeon's back.

"When I first saw her - she was not a woman but a doe," the words come slowly at first, gathering momentum as memories returned.

"It was summer. I was hunting for meat. I caught sight of a doe, and trailed it first through a dense thicket - before too long I found myself lost within a glade I'd never known existed."

Cyril shifted his weight, heaving his leaden body towards a more upright, attentive position.

"It was a shady and cool place, with a dense canopy of trees. The air was damp and filled with fluttering insects, or faeries, I couldn't tell which. My instincts told me to be wary, that this was a magical place, so I drew an arrow from my quiver and silently followed the beast.

"I followed her to pond covered in lilies, and it was there that she took her human shape. The doe merely knelt beside the water, and in the blink of an eye a woman was in her place. I gasped from the shock of it and loosed my arrow completely by accident. It sailed far to the left of her, luckily, slicing into the pond. She stirred at the noise, perhaps willing to guess it was a fish or frog, but when the arrow surfaced she saw the shaft and feathers and she knew she was not alone.

"She quickly darted to her feet, looked around, and maybe sensing me more than seeing me, she resumed her doe shape and ran away. I sprinted after her, assuring her she need not be afraid."

This is the first Cyril had heard that Muirenn was a shape-shifter or familiar. Writings had indicated that she might have been some sort of sprite, as she'd expressed an affinity towards nature. Her presence in lore is shamefully lacking, and unfortunately also short-lived. Once robbed of her immortality, it's suggested she spent every night under the moon longing for her lost lover.

"After that I looked for her everywhere I went - but I never saw her when I looked with my eyes. It will sound strange to hear, but I could feel her when she was close by. So it was at harvest's end, I felt her, and left to find her. She was skipping through tall reeds and grasses along the steppes. I'd never seen such beauty before in all my life. From the moment I first saw her, I was transformed."

"You said - she was - betrothed?"

Archemedeon was quiet for a while, perhaps trying to regain his focus. Cyril waited on pins and needles of anticipation.

"Those were dark times. There were rumors that the human children of the gods were born cursed. It did not happen in the village I came from, but caravans brought with them stories of mass executions and earth stained permanently red from blood.

"Muirenn confided in me that there was much grief shared between her father and uncles. They had decided the bloodline should be kept pure, except - there were no female gods."

Cyril immediately thought of Neas, and wondered what dread she may have felt.

"Muirenn's own mother had died during childbirth, and Aodh was not interested in taking another wife. Muirenn told me he was repulsed by the culling of male children and the premium placed upon daughters. She told me he begged her to accept her fate and not be sad about it.

"Being a mortal man there was little I could do to oppose the gods. My strongest bow and my best arrows would have been little more than twigs flung at Aodh. Muirenn and I dreamt of running away, to the farthest corners of the land, burrowing under rocks, under mountains, hiding amongst trees or in underwater caves - _but the eyes of the gods could see us anywhere we hid - there wasn't anywhere to run to_.

"The only thing I could think to do was to marry her myself and give her a child. I thought certainly her father must be more kind than cruel when it comes to his own blood, and that he would forgive me for my heart was pure."

The corners of Cyril's mouth curled downwards in a deep, sympathetic frown.

Archemedeon buried his face in his hands, struggling to un-see the horror playing out in his mind. He and his bride had barely enough time to express their love before the sky over their hidden glade was torn open and the earth laid flat. Fire rained down from the clouds burning everything in sight; Archemedeon's house, his village, the crops and all the fields, the wildflowers and reeds along the steppes. Not having anywhere left to run to they ran aimlessly. Archemedeon gripped Muirenn's hand as if their flesh might fuse together - running wildly, desperately, trying to flee an omnipotent force. When at last the ground was too hot against their scorched feet and the flames threatened to consume them both - he carried her in his arms. Worse than any hellfire, her sobs tore at his soul - as did the knowledge that he was helpless to protect her.

* * *

According to Bo's hurried web search - the nearest florist is less than a mile away, bearing the quaint moniker "Flower Haus".

When she arrived she practically doubled over with laughter; the "Haus" is a delightful wood shack straight out of a fairy tale. Painted light blue with ornate white trim Bo half expected to find a witch inside with two children on the rotisserie.

Inside the Flower Haus the walls are unpainted - rows and rows and bunches of flowers and blooms supply every color known to man; Bo's eyes feast on the limitless palette. She wanders about in a daze, awestruck by the sheer variety of petals and plants.

Before too long a tiny old man hobbles out from a back room and offers his assistance. Bo awakes from her trance, and greets him with a warm smile. She's amused at how the simple beauty of flowers can both calm the soul and inspire wonderment.

"I'm looking for… well, clearly I'm looking for flowers but I have no idea what kind. I don't know much about flowers, I guess I only really know the basics."

"Well.." the old man draws out, "Why don't we start out with who you're buying for…? Your mother, perhaps?"

"_No_," Bo snaps, and then tries to cover for her being being flustered, "They're for my …_girlfriend_." No point in lying. She'd considered saying lover but who calls anyone their lover anymore?

"Does she have a favorite color?"

Bo realizes she doesn't know. Lauren is fairly fond of a certain pink sweater, but that may have nothing to do with color preference. "I don't know," she says. Bo finds herself recalling fond memories of that pink sweater, primarily the memories of it tossed into a pile on the floor.

"Well then. What's the occasion? Birthday..?"

"No, it's not her birthday. I just wanted to get her something to say…I'm thinking of her."

"Hmm. Well, pink roses represent appreciation, and yellow friendship..."

"No no, I know I don't want roses. Not that roses aren't beautiful, your roses are really beautiful, but roses are sort of …overdone, _you know what I mean_?"

"They are a very popular flower for a variety of occasions, yes.."

"I was hoping to give her something more unique, not necessarily strange or extravagant - but rather - something simple, yet elegant."

The pair stare at each other for a moment.

"What are those? Daisies?" Bo points and asks.

"Those are cosmos."

"I'll take a dozen. No, _two_. Two dozen. _More is more_, right?"

"_More is definitely more_," he says, removing the large vase from the cooler. Bo watches contentedly as he counts out a variety of colors, wraps them in paper and secures them with a ribbon.

Bo pays for the bundle and cradles it in her arms just as a parent would carry their sleeping child off to their waiting bed. She's touched by her own gesture, and feels in her heart this simple act is long overdue. She lays the bouquet down in the backseat as if it were precious cargo.

Before she can slide behind the wheel her phone buzzes - it's Lauren. Bo notes It's odd for her to text - Lauren is the type who'd rather have a two minute conversation rather than spend five minutes texting. Bo opens the message and reads:

"Big news! Meet us at the Dal"

"_Who's 'us'?_" Bo says aloud, mystified, but the cars whizzing past her don't answer. She immediately assumes Lauren means Dyson, and this assumption solidifies as fact in Bo's mind. She'd sooner believe the earth has cracked in half and hell's army poured forth before suspecting her lover was driving around town with another woman, let alone the much-loathed valkyrie.

Bo grips the steering wheel a little too tightly, frustrated that her plans have been interrupted. She'd made dinner reservations at a japanese fusion place earlier, and was hoping to have time to change into something fancier after obtaining flowers. She makes a sharp turn in the direction of the Dal but suddenly reconsiders; Bo peels into a u-turn to a barrage of honks and screams. Her middle finger is proudly displayed out the driver's window.

* * *

Bo is impeccable in her black dress, heels and carefully applied make-up, feeling genuinely sexy instead of a caricature sexiness. The distinction, she knows, lies in the mind, not just the eye of the beholder. Lauren will appreciate this more than stretch pants and leather nonetheless.

"Damn, gurrrrrl," Kenzi drawls when Bo appears downstairs. She presses a her thumb to Bo's ass and makes a sizzling noise. "This should do the trick. And every other trick in your book of tricks." Bo chuckles lightly.

"You think? I'm not completely sure, it's harder to tell with women."

"Oh hellz yeah, you've got SmashDance written all over you."

"I'm not exactly sure what that means," Bo says while she wrestles with her left pump, "but I'll assume that's a good thing. You want a lift to the Dal? It seems I'm meeting her there."

"What happened to dinner at Yoshi's?"

"The Dal is an unexpected twist. But I haven't canceled dinner yet - just in case - you know, we're in the mood for food later."

"Cocktails and glamour? I'm all over that. I'll get my purse."


	19. Hunting Season

Promptly after hitting 'send' Lauren is struck with a wry mixture of guilt and paranoia. In her mind, the decision to text instead of calling Bo is a clear admission of wrongdoing. Why not just say she's with Tamsin? Where's the harm in being straightforward and honest? Heck, why not just admit her attraction to Tamsin? Attraction is normal, after all, it's even healthy - and one's significant other ought not feel threatened by healthy, normal human behavior.

Except when deceit comes into play.

Lauren recognizes she's altered her normal pattern behavior in order to protect her current indulgence - and possibly avoid conflict later on. It's a small thing, a tiny thing, choosing to text instead of conversing with her lover - but it's not insignificant. It's first step towards larger, less forgivable crimes.

Tamsin's truck rumbles and lurches into an uneasy start. The detective looks over at Lauren almost apologetically; "My Porsche is in the shop."

Lauren smiles at the detective's joke. "Does your Porsche also have duct tape holding the seats together?"

"I went for the lambskin option, duct tape was too rich for my blood," is Tamsin's response, delivered in an impeccably deadpan tone.

The two women continuously glance over at each other, sizing up each other's comfort level. Each time their eyes meet - a flurry of silent signals are exchanged.

Lauren's eyes flicker nervously and fall to her anxious hands folded neatly in her lap. She hides her gaze by forcing herself to stare out the passenger window. Her eyes wander over the fleeting world outside the rambling vehicle - but eventually settle on her own faint image reflected in the glass, and beyond that, she focuses in on the devastating blonde staring right back. Her skin tingles with sexual energy.

Lauren finds herself considering how she's always been awkward when it comes to advances, and requires a certain level of encouragement. A previous girlfriend had referred to Lauren's dating tactics as "charge and retreat" - which Lauren had to admit was a fairly accurate assessment. She thought, perhaps, as a scientist she had additional insight into the minute details of physical attraction, the biological response - but finds the other side of attraction - the social cues subjective and thus unreliable.

She was fairly certain Tamsin was interested, but she wasn't _completely_ certain. She thought about how embarrassing it would be to test her theory only to have Tamsin react with shock and horror - what then? The entire situation is a minefield, she thought to herself. If she made any gestures towards Tamsin and they weren't received approvingly, she'd only be giving Tamsin thermonuclear-grade ammunition to use against Bo. Lauren's heart then sunk a bit as she contemplated the status of her relationship with Bo, and how suddenly she was aching to be seduced by someone else.

To her credit, the detective is able to read something in the air between them has shifted, and that her passenger is privately struggling. She's also acutely aware of an electricity between them, and while she'd begun flirting with the human doctor for sport, she now found herself legitimately interested in fucking her. The discrete charm of Lauren Lewis had ensnared her curiosity - far beyond the smug satisfaction she'd initially envisioned from seducing the succubus's property. Suddenly the thought of hungry, rough sex with the shy and reserved human seems utterly delicious.

Tamsin glances over at Lauren and considers her options. She thinks about reaching over and putting her hand on Lauren's knee - that would certainly get the message across - she looks over at her passenger's knee and finds it planted firmly against the other knee. Too invasive, she wisely decides. Next, she thinks about pulling over and parking, and announcing her interest; it's direct and to the point but probably also intimidating. Tamsin doesn't want to overwhelm the doctor, or damage her already bleak status within the group. The doctor requires some finessing. Momentarily stumped, she thinks about parking and using the old gag about running out of gas. The last thought makes her chuckle out loud - and this captures Lauren's interest.

"What's so funny?" Lauren asks, demurely.

Tamsin considers telling her. Instead she smiles and shrugs and says nothing. A few moments pass before the perfect plan hatches in her brain.

"I just realized I forgot something at home," she announces.

"Okay."

Tamsin ponders over Lauren's lack of reaction. The ploy of something left at home wasn't intended to come off as a come-on - but it would be sort of nice _if it did._ It seems the doctor, like her succubus, are both poor judges of character. Or at the very least naive.

When they park outside of Tamsin's building, the detective hesitates before exiting the car. "I'll be back in a sec," she says, as if expecting the doctor will interrupt her.

Tamsin hops out of her truck and slowly struts around the front of the vehicle. Lauren is transfixed by her grace and powerful posture - her heart rate escalates as her body recalls the excitement it felt from her dream. Tamsin makes it as far as her doorway before she pauses and grinds her boot heel into the pavement; she drops her shoulders and turns around, walking back to the truck. She gestures Lauren to roll down the window and Lauren obliges, with some trepidation.

Tamsin leans against the door, her arms crossed in the open window. "Care to come up?"

The invite is just thrown out there, casually, without a hint of malice or expectation. Lauren doesn't quite know what to do. Her heart is slamming against her ribs like an angry gorilla.

"Um.." says the doe trapped in headlights.

Tamsin studies Lauren's face, and correctly reads the indecisiveness as conflict. She knows if she takes charge of the moment she can control Lauren's response, and she does so by opening the car door and saying, reassuringly, "C'mon."

Lauren cautiously slides out of her seat and steps out onto the sidewalk. Tamsin masterfully gives the truck door a shove and it slams shut. It has a certain ring of victory to it.

Once inside the building the pair walk to a large, freight-style elevator Tamsin grabs the gate handle and drags it over to one side, allowing Lauren to step inside. Lauren smiles graciously and bows her head. Tamsin joins her and again, grabs the gate, plants her feet firmly and heaves it shut. Lauren is preoccupied thinking about the detective's strong and sculpted arms. She takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment or two. She savors this gate opening and closing olympics a second time when they arrive at Tamsin's floor.

"This building used to be a boot and saddle company back in the day. It still kinda smells like leather." Tamsin artfully tries to allay Lauren's fears with small talk; "Someone told me they tanned the leather on this floor, and dyed it the floor below me."

They arrive at a large steel door and all that separates them from their inhibitions. Tamsin turns her key in the lock and a loud _THUNK_ rattles throughout the loft when the deadbolt surrenders. A wave of cool air greets the women as they enter the dark, sparsely decorated space. Lauren notices the high ceiling and all the pipework zig-zagging from one end of the room to the other. The rough brick walls are decorated with a few large canvases painted with earthy, muted colors. On the far side of the room one wall is lined entirely with windows; the long, translucent curtains occasionally rise and fall over a faint wind, just like the sails of a ship. And there, positioned squarely in the center, an unmade platform bed.

Upon finding the mattress Lauren's eyes quickly dart to Tamsin. The valkyrie leans back against a brick pillar and breaks eye contact to brazenly look Lauren up and down. When their eyes meet again it's pretty well understood that the interest is mutual.

"You want a drink?" Tamsin asks.

"Huhm!" Lauren moans loudly. "I could probably really use one but no, no thank you, no."

Tamsin pours some vodka into a tumbler but doesn't immediately take a sip. She swirls it in the glass, then folds her arms across her chest.

"So… you needed to get something?" Lauren finally says.

There's a prolonged silence before Tamsin sets her drink down next to the bottle it came from. She strides up to Lauren, clearly intending to violate her personal space. Anticipating contact Lauren puts out her hands, as if to push Tamsin away; instead, Tamsin slides into Lauren's grip, held firm at the elbows. Tamsin reacts by taking hold of Lauren's slender hips - and is alerted to the sensation of the doctor shivering in her grasp.

"I can't.." Lauren gasps.

"The hell you can't." Tamsin says in a low voice, her mouth close to Lauren's chin. Through tight denim Tamsin's thumbs caress the insides of Lauren's hip bone, causing jolts of electricity to race through her body, She feels almost powerless to stop Tamsin, rivers of pleasure coursing through her weak limbs. She's suddenly and all at once aware of her wetness, and a tight knot between her legs begging to be touched.

Tamsin swiftly moves to undo Lauren's belt - pulling the strap and loosing the hook, the buckle gives way. Lauren struggles against Tamsin and as the two women fumble for control they fall against the steel entry door. Tamsin pulls hungrily at Lauren's button-fly and it quickly yields to her vigor. The detective pushes her body into Lauren's - forcing another wave of pleasure. Lauren's mouth is open wide with a stifled groan when Tamsin takes her face in her hands. When she maneuvers to kiss Lauren, Lauren repeats, "I can't, I can't. Please don't…"

This might not have been enough on it's own to part the fog of arousal Tamsin was in - however, the sudden appearance of wet tears against her palms was, and she abruptly regained her senses.

Breathing hard she releases Lauren and steps back. Attempting to regain composure Tamsin plants a palm against her forehead, wiping a line of sweat back into her hair.

"Whoa, whoa whoa," she says, "I thought…I really thought I was getting the green light." An unsteady hand reaches for the tumbler of vodka and she takes a swig.

Looking like she's still pressed against the door Lauren slowly unfurls, wiping away the flash of tears. "You were..." she clears her throat.

Tamsin turns her back to Lauren and pours herself a second vodka, quite clearly distressed by what just happened. Lauren fixes her pants and takes a seat on the arm of a nearby sofa. After a protracted silence Lauren apologizes.

"Why are _you_ sorry?" Tamsin snaps. "Jesus._ I'm the fucking cop here, I should have._." the detective clenches her jaw in restraint.

"Because I am attracted to you and _I have been thinking about this, dreaming about this_, with you, even though it's wrong, I haven't been able to get you out of my head. I know that psychologically I'm probably just transferring my sexual desire towards you because my relationship with Bo has been unfulfilling lately…"

"GEE THANKS.."

"Tamsin…please…" Lauren walks over to Tamsin and hesitates only a moment before placing her hand comfortingly on the detective's back. "Please don't be mean."

"Fucking christ. _I wouldn't have forced you_, you know."

"I know. I know that. I'm sure of that." Tamsin finally looks Lauren in the eye, scrutinizing her sincerity. Lauren notes the detective's icy blue eyes have finally revealed a glimmer of something real - a vast and deep sadness. As soon as Lauren spies it - it vanishes.

"I don't want to be your fucking girlfriend or whatever," Tamsin continued, "I just wanted to have sex with you, and I thought, you know, you'd be okay with that."

"Again, I'm sorry. I… would totally be into it, I just… it shouldn't be the way Bo finds out I'm unhappy."

"Well isn't Bo lucky?"

"She is, actually."

"Yeah that was like, a rhetorical question or something. Whatever."


	20. To Love Is To Bury

_I'm thrilled "Hunting Season" was received so well. Several of you really made my evening, thank you so much for taking the time to comment._

* * *

Tamsin pounds her fists on the steering wheel, an outburst that momentarily startles Lauren. Her face is frozen in anticipatory dread until the frustrated detective speaks.

"Is this going to be weird? Are you going to be weird with me over this? 'Cause I really can't do girlie drama bullshit."

Lauren pauses to consider what Tamsin means. "Well, I guess I'm not entirely clear on what girlie drama bullshit entails."

"Are you going to tell your girlfriend that I lured you into my apartment and tried to assault you?"

"_Oh my god_.." Lauren is taken aback by hearing the scenario painted by Tamsin. Lauren felt many things upstairs in Tamsin's loft but neither fear nor the threat of sexual violence were amongst those feelings. Lust, yes - aching, yearning, passion, longing - a thousand times yes.

She realises that while her opinion of Tamsin has evolved somewhat over the last week or so, it hasn't quite reached a point where she feels comfortable presuming the detective is gentler-hearted than her trucker-mouth and abrasive personality indicate. Lauren had previously suspected Tamsin wasn't always earnest with her, but is convinced now that this concern of hers is real. Tamsin is genuinely freaked out by what has recently transpired, and Lauren is deeply compelled to reassure her.

"You did not - _did not_ - try to assault me. I got in your car because _I wanted _to be with you, I went into your apartment thinking _I wanted to be with you_. Do_ not _undermine my culpability in this," she says imploringly, urgently.

Tamsin exhales heavily, only somewhat relieved.

"So what are you going to tell her then? I get how you operate. I know you're too honorable not to say something."

Lauren smiles awkwardly, amused by the detective's choice of words.

"I haven't quite figured that out yet but you're right, I will tell her something, probably something along the lines of acknowledging the attraction I feel towards you and how I was tempted to act upon it."

"Oh really? And you don't think she will absolutely flip her shit?"

"She won't be happy about it, no. I expect she will be hurt..and angry. But you need to give Bo some credit - she's not unreasonable. Of all people - _or fae, I guess_ - she understands attraction and desire."

Tamsin massages her brow. A flurry of snarky responses flood her brain as she contemplates Bo's magnanimous nature and her saintly human girlfriend. She's tempted to ask why Bo is so self-absorbed, then? If she's so great and understanding, why is Dyson still in the picture? Why this, why that - why? She drags her fingers through her hair, pushing some loose locks of spun gold back and away from her face. Lauren admires her chiseled, flawless beauty and accidental elegance.

"Fuck, let's just forget it happened."

"I get the distinct sense that there's something you're not saying."

Tamsin looks at Lauren squarely, cocking an eyebrow. She turns the key in the ignition and the truck belches and vibrates, coughing up a cloud of white smoke._ What is it about this goddamn doctor?_ She searches herself for an answer but her mind is a clusterfuck of confused thoughts. She admits to herself she probably sees exactly what the succubus sees in her. Maybe even a bit more.

"So we're okay, yeah?"

Lauren hesitates, searching the detective's face for some kind of sign. Finding nothing, she reluctantly agrees.

* * *

The pair arrive at the Dal to find Dyson mid-pint and hunched over the bar, practically nose-to-nose with Trick. Tamsin can see they've got binder-clipped chapters of Cyril's manuscript divided between them. Dyson points out something of interest, and Trick's eyes follow. Trick's body language says a lot; his elbow is planted on the bar and his fist is gnashed against his temple. To the detective it reads fear, frustration, dread.

A tiny voice crackles through her radar from over her shoulder; "Bo's not here…" Lauren says with a hint of confusion.

Tamsin stops in her tracks. "Would you prefer she was already here, and seeing us come in together?"

"Well, no… but you said - you had suggested she might already be here, and it seemed plausible."

"I assumed she would be. I'm just as surprised as you are. You know how she and Wolfman are inseparable."

Lauren's too proud to acknowledge it verbally but yes, Lauren thinks to herself, she knows - _she knows_. She doesn't appreciate the less-than-subtle jab but can't argue against it, either.

Dyson seems to instinctively notice the women and waves them over. The friends all exchange greetings and the women take seats, Lauren next to Dyson, and Tamsin next to Lauren. Lauren can't tell if Dyson is eyeing her suspiciously or if she's merely being paranoid. Maybe he's just unaccustomed to seeing her without Bo.

"Where's Bo?" Trick asks, bluntly.

"I figured she'd be here," Tamsin interjects without a second's hesitation, "Wolfman and I were reading this manuscript and after he took off - I figured I'd swing by the Doc's place and bounce some ideas off her."

"Oh? Have you come up with something?" Trick is buzzing with excitement.

"Well, I assume you've had time to look over Cyril's paper…"

"Yes, Dyson and I have been going over it. I have to admit - I'm familiar with the story of Archemedeon but I've never heard anything like this, I've never heard it suggested he might still be alive, let alone …have the power of Aodh." Trick's eyes make the rounds amongst his friends, and then he adds matter-of-factly, "I guess it makes sense though - if you want your victim to suffer - _really suffer_ - it means keeping him alive."

"So, I'm going to assume we're all on the same page here thinking that Cyril and his buddies are all in on this plan to bring this god back to earth and - use him, somehow," Dyson says.

"If you were assuming that two weeks ago I'd say you were right on time," Tamsin says. When she looks up from her beer she finds the two men staring at her, hungry for her to continue.

"We've been looking at the penthouse as an accident -" she says in a serious tone, her open palm accentuating every point, "We've been looking at things from the perspective that those burned bodies were a _screw up_ - an insidious Dark plot that backfired. _We're wrong._ There were casualties, yes, but by Dark standards the evening was a glowing success."

"_What are you saying?"_

"I'm saying Archemedeon is already here. In fact, I think we were probably looking right at him while we were at Cyril's."

"That - _kid?_ That passed-out-drunk kid?" Dyson blusters, full of disbelief.

Trick interrupts, "Why would he be with Cyril? What sort of plans could Cyril possibly have?!"

A torrent of panicked statements ensue. Tamsin waits until both men have settled down and are quiet. She sighs heavily, and Lauren notes a hint of exasperation in her voice.

"Look," the detective says gruffly, "I don't think Cyril gives a fuck about politics. Why?" she slaps her hand down on the manuscript. "He wants people to take him seriously. For his mind."

Trick scoffs a little, wincing at Tamsin's suggestion.

"Seriously. Does an old rich dude who writes stuffy books on ancient history fit the profile of a megalomaniac? No, but you can take a stab at who does."

Lauren's mind begins to wander from the conversation. She watches as Trick and Dyson make pointed arguments against what Tamsin is suggesting; she watches their body language, flaring eyes, raised brows - but she's deaf to their words. How is it the world of these Fae is always so in danger, always on the precipice of collapse - and presumably always has been - all the while humankind carries on, blissfully unaware? Have these clandestine meetings in bars always taken place - a group of heroic, dashing fae negotiating the terms of some massive battle..the fate of the world in the hands of a select few? For a moment she thinks she understands Tamsin's frustration. Why can't life carry on more simply, and without such desperation. If she were to let go of this life - _would it simply fade away? _

Her thoughts turn then to the portrait being painted for her of this cursed boy, Archemedeon. Just as he was forgotten about in the cold depths of space, he's forgotten now, perceived only as an impending threat. Isolation can drive a person mad. Can it drive a god mad? The doctor in her can't understand anyone having the mental fortitude to endure such horrific isolation, but while her comrades discuss means to capture the boy-god, Lauren can only think of treating him.

There's a sudden bang and clatter from the rear of the room, and eventually Kenzi emerges. With a fluidity of motion and true showmanship she extends both arms, like a gothic Liberace, dramatically announcing, "Who's ready to have their mind blown? Or minds, if we have any hydra fae in the house!"

Bo breezes up to Kenzi, whispering _"goofball,"_ as she passes.

Jaws collectively drop at the sight of Bo. Dyson takes a gulp of beer and summons his best poker-face. Lauren, on the other hand, hadn't even completed her last thought and stood blankly, like a train-derailed.

"Hello beautiful," Bo says as she snakes an arm around Lauren's waist. Lauren's lips flutter, trying to compose words, before finally surrendering a shaky "Hi."

The blonde detective looks away and drains her pint glass - and Dyson is the only one to notice.

"Gentlemen - if you don't mind I've got a very special evening planned for my girlfriend.." Bo weaves her arm through Lauren's and continues, "..because I haven't been very good to her lately. And she really deserves to know how much she means to me."

"BA BA WOWO WOW, CHIKKA WOW CHIKKA WOW.."

"Kenzi! No porno music, seriously."

The cluster of friends share a good laugh but Trick cuts them short, "Ladies - I want you to enjoy your evening but we're in the middle of discussing something of critical importance. Bo - we really need you clued in on this."

"Ugh, Trick, really? Everything is always critically important. Is anything happening tonight? Any big showdown or stakeout or…trapping a genie in a bottle?" she looks around for a response and finds nothing. "No? We're still at the planning phase? So how about someone text me the lowdown and where I need to show up and at what time - and I'll see y'all there? Same bat-time, same bat-channel, right?"

"Bo this sort of is a big-" Bo hastily presses her fingers to Lauren's lips.

"Let 'em go," Tamsin says in a low voice, her back half-turned to the group of friends, "We can figure this out. Besides she's right, nothing's gonna go down tonight."

Feigning embarrassment, Kenzi gracefully covers her face after her obnoxious snort.


	21. Black Dress, White Lie

_I am sooooo sorry it's taken me this long to update. If you follow me on twitter - you're aware that I had a gallery opening recently….and unfortunately that took up a lot of my time. I should be back on a weekly schedule now. _

* * *

"I am so under-dressed for this. I wish you'd have let me go home and shower - and put on something more appropriate.."

"You're fine, stop worrying. Plenty of people are dressed casually."

"You're not. And you do look amazing, in case I haven't told you a thousand times."

Bo smiles shyly into her wine glass.

Small talk is the special of the day, with the two women lost between stolen glances and stuttered compliments. Lauren pushes a piece of sea bass across her plate with a fork, wondering how and when to bring up Tamsin. Does the subject of Tamsin even need to be brought up? Lauren struggles with the feeling that it would be in poor taste to mention the much-loathed valkyrie when Bo is making such a grand gesture. After weeks of being secondary to all the other goings-on in Bo's life Lauren finally has what she had been longing for - she decides to respect Bo's efforts and let down her guard.

"How did you know to get me cosmos ?" Lauren asks.

"My good luck I suppose. I just think roses are kind of - obligatory, you know? People buy roses without even thinking about it. Valentines day? A dozen roses, it's a given. I didn't want to be brainless about it, so I went with what caught my eye. I don't know much about flowers, but I thought these were simple - and beautiful."

A warm glow settles on Lauren's face. Her mind wanders back to a time that feels like ancient history to her now. She gazes down at her plate, lost to another time and another place - another life. With great curiosity Bo notices the gradual bloom of soft smile ...

"When I was a little girl," Lauren begins without looking up from her plate, "there was an old woman who lived next door to us, a widow I think, she must have been a hundred if she was a day. She grew the most amazing cosmos. I would sit on my knees in the grass and just watch her tend her flowers - and she would tolerate my incessant questions with the patience of a saint! I remember those cosmos clear as day, and how they were just heaven for me to look at."

She raises her gaze finally and their eyes lock; "Thank you Bo - for bringing that memory back to me."

* * *

Lauren's key skids across the lacquered door as it frantically searches for its lock. Repeated jabs continually miss their mark, carving the door with evidence of their lust. Bo's frenzied hands are grabbing and pulling all at once, one hand under her shirt and the other wrapped around Lauren's waist. The two women are desperate to get inside.

"I'll kick it down if I have to," Bo breathes through Lauren's hair.

"I just, I just need to, ah.." she shivers.

Bo's hand covers Lauren's and guides it to the set of waiting tumblers. One sharp twist of the wrist and the entangled women stumble inside. They burst into the living area and immediately begin the process of hastily shedding clothes. Bo violently shucks off Lauren's leather jacket and tosses it across the room.

Climbing the stairs to the bedroom is about as smooth-going as a four-legged sack race - but the pair manage. Lauren has lost her shoes and shirt along the way, and makes a mental note not to trip on them in the morning.

When Bo pins her to the bed her conscience yet again drums up thoughts of Tamsin, and whether or not she should tell Bo now. _Now or later?_ she thinks to herself. _Now or afterwards? Now or not at all?_ Bo's hair slips across her face, drowning her in the scent of lilac wafting along a summer breeze. Her lover's tongue caresses her ear and neck, pushing thoughts of Tamsin further and further back into her mind.

As her kisses outline Lauren's jaw, Bo's hand artfully pulls the strap off Lauren's shoulder and slides her hand underneath the silk of her brassiere. The tender skin there reacts immediately, tense and anxious. A slight squeeze and Lauren wriggles underneath her.

_Not tonight_

_Not tonight _

_Not tonight_

Bo is on fire _tonight_, prolonging foreplay to the point of being almost painful. Lauren tries, repeatedly, to switch places with her lover but Bo remains steadfast. Sensing Lauren's mounting frustration, Bo sits up, straddling her lover. Lauren clenches her stomach muscles as Bo's fingers go perusing, teasing her navel and finally, a bit south. For the second time in one day Lauren endures the sensation of someone else undoing her trousers. She throws her head back, groans, and imagines the massive erection she would have if she had been born a man.

Her jeans tossed into a corner, Lauren raises herself up on one elbow anxious to embrace her lover. Bo, however, has other plans. Lauren is startled by Bo's aggressiveness, particularly when Bo takes hold of her by the hips and pulls her legs over the side of the bed. She's further startled when Bo kneels at the foot of the bed. Before she can protest the arrangement Bo wraps her arm around one leg and holds it over her shoulder and, without warning, takes Lauren fully into her mouth.

It's awkward at first for Lauren - being the only body spread prone on a large mattress. She's aware of her smallness - and her nakedness - and openness. Initially it's a struggle to relax. Alone on the bed she feels exposed, and guilt begins to cloud her mind. She wonders how it would have been with Tamsin, and intuitively imagines something desperate and half-starved, even savage. But not loving.

Sensing that Lauren's arousal is faltering, Bo moans into her. The vibrations course through Lauren's loins like electricity, jarring her thoughts as effectively as kicking over a bookshelf. Bo smiles inwardly, very clearly aware of the sudden firmness between her lips. She nurtures it there, her soft lips massaging one moment, sucking the next. Her tongue takes turns exploring, drawing circles, until at last her lover's screams are begging for mercy. Bo's shoulders push forward against Lauren's thighs, spreading her more fully, and then she begins a firm, steady rhythm. Lauren shivers and jerks almost violently, gasping for air.

A thin line of kisses travel up Lauren's thigh. Bo's hair drapes across her legs; under different circumstances it would tickle, except that now every nerve in Lauren's body is humming in unison.

Bo takes Lauren's legs by the knees and drags them onto the bed. Lauren limply assists. Her fists unclench, releasing the handfuls of sheets that she'd pulled from the bedding.

It takes a few moments for the haze to clear and for Lauren to compose herself. "Bo…that was incredible.."

Bo smiles. "I wanted to give you the best head you've ever had."

If she weren't already flushed, Lauren would have blushed from hearing these words. "Consider yourself successful, in that regard," said with a quivering voice.

Lauren closes her eyes, allowing herself another moment to recover. Again, without warning, Lauren is alerted to the sensation of Bo's fingers. She looks up at Bo, her eyelids heavy, and in the midst of explaining it was to soon for her to orgasm again, Bo slides inside.

The doctor groans from the welcomed sensation.

Bo begins gently enough, taking her time and allowing Lauren's body to adjust to new stimuli. She's an adept lover, knowing just where to touch - and how, and _when_. Before too long Lauren's arousal is again fully alert. She's grabs Bo's hand and sits up, throwing her arm around Bo's neck.

This time - Bo doesn't fight being pinned. Her own desire is hard and clamoring for relief. In a fit of sheer lust, Lauren pushes Bo's dress up past her hips and hooks her thumbs in the thin string of black panties.

"Ive never seen these before," she says with ragged breath.

"Just get them off me," Bo responds impatiently.

With the panties landing somewhere in the next room - Lauren eagerly pushes herself into Bo. Both women swoon at the sensation of flesh meeting flesh. Lauren plants her mouth firmly against Bo's, kissing her deeply and sucking her lower lip. Bo returns the gesture, darting her tongue inside Lauren's hungry mouth. Neither one of them are completely aware that they've instinctively started to grind gently into each other until Lauren stops abruptly, "Your dress!"

The words snap Bo unwillingly back into the present. Bewildered at first, she curls her hips into her lover, sending a clear message.

"It's okay, it's okay," she pants, "Just finish.."

Lauren resumes her thrusts, and Bo, wanting more, grabs her hips and simultaneously pulls her lover into her. Lauren finds the act of fucking Bo with her dress still on strangely arousing, as if it were a forbidden, secret thing, like they were in public someplace, a phone booth, a coat check room, an office supply closet. A dozen scenarios play out her head, all of them slightly kinky and fairly unheard of in the barely-debauched-sex-life-of-doctor-Lauren-Lewis.

Her fantasy is shrugged off when she becomes aware her partner is climaxing; Bo's grasp has grown firmer and greets Lauren's pace with rolling hips. Lauren abandons her restraint and the two women shudder and tremble together, blind from waves of pleasure, drowning in ecstatic agony.

* * *

Tamsin drains her fourth pint glass and orders a fifth. Although he doesn't hesitate to fill her glass it does cross Trick's mind that she's drinking more heavily tonight.

"So… I think we're all in agreement here that something needs to be done - but what, exactly? Drag this kid in on murder charges? Or suspicion of being an ancient fae deity? How do you go about arresting a god, exactly?"

Tamsin gives Dyson a sideways glance and says, "I hate the smell of burnt fur."

He cocks a snarky half-smile and responds "Exactly. If he can roast seventeen people on accident - what can he do on purpose?"

"All we can do here is presume intent. The light fae who died in the fire were co-mingling with dark fae willfully. We really don't have a leg to stand on, legally or tribally," Trick frowns and exhales through his nose, taking leave to tend to a customer further down the bar.

Left alone with Tamsin, Dyson speaks more candidly: "So. What do you suppose the Morrigan will do with a millennia-old god at her disposal?"

_"How the fuck should I know?"_ She snaps.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Are you…accusing me of something?"

He eyes her suspiciously, "I'm just…acknowledging your roots."

"Get fucked, Fido."

"You'd like us all to believe you're an objective cop and your dark fealty is just a technicality. You break bread with us, you drink with us - now you come in here tonight and your scent is all over Lauren - and I can still smell her on you - and you think I'm going to trust you?"

Tamsin's eyes burn with alert rage and for a moment she's speechless.

"What are you complaining about? You'd love it if they split up," she stammers angrily.

"I would never want to see Bo hurt like that-"

_"Oh bullshit_ you wouldn't. You'd love it. You'd _abso-fucking-lutely_ love it. Princess Bo has her poor little heart broken and goes running back into your waiting wolf-arms, please, drop your noble horseshit."

"Part of truly loving someone is being able to love them even if they're not in love with you," Dyson says, a hint of snarl to his voice.

"And part of loving someone is wanting to fuck them every which way 'til tuesday. Get over yourself."

Losing a bit of self-control Dyson grabs Tamsin's wrist, demanding to know what's going on between her and Lauren. Tamsin's instinctive response isn't the least bit dulled by drink. The deep hollows of her ghostly visage spook Dyson and he releases her. Trick bellows from the end of the bar "Take it outside!"

"Do you want to take it outside teen-wolf?" Tamsin glares. "I've laid the armies of hades to waste with the wrath of a thousand suns. I've made kings carve out their own hearts with chards of glass. You I could turn inside-out and drink from like a canteen."

Dyson holds a flurry of insults behind his clenched teeth, his eyes burning with anger. And a tiny bit of fear.


	22. Night Without End

How would everyone feel if I finish this story the way I intended to, and then write an alternative ending?

UPDATE: Ok, let me elaborate. I'm planted pretty firmly in the doccubus camp - though truth be told I am way more Doc than Bus. I suppose I'm kind of jaded by the way things were handled in the show - I don't think they've done Bo's character a lot of justice. The Dawning felt rushed and rather inconsequential to me - except to re-establish Dyson as a potential love interest.

However, from a writer's perspective, Tamsin's character is pretty fascinating to me. The alternate ending, if I write it, will be me exploring doccop potential. I know plenty of people are opposed to that pairing - which is why I am suggesting an alternate ending. You have the doccubus ending, or if you like/are curious/are totally into it/are open-minded but don't care either way - ending. It really just is about me doing some additional character exploration.

UPDATE TO THE UPDATE: I'll add I understand doccop will never happen in the show. I don't think I'd ever want it to. But the stark contrast between the two characters is intriguing to me and I may want to play around with it. It's the reader's choice to read or not.

That said, I'm getting the sense it's a bad idea for this story, and perhaps should be something written separately.

* * *

Archemedeon wakes to the sound of Cyril's voice. He's yelling in another room.

He rubs his eyes - which are full of grit - and strains to see through the blackness of his surroundings. With enough effort, the room is illuminated.

Sleep isn't what it used to be, he thinks to himself. Sleep is deeper, and blacker than it used to be - and almost always dreamless. Archemedeon misses his dreams. Perhaps it's the excess of wine.

Cyril has explained to him - countless times - that he will adjust to his new life in time. The world is a different place, Cyril says. It's Cyril's answer for nearly everything. And Cyril is right - the world is very different from what he remembers.

It was all beyond his understanding - his banishment - it happened in an instant. The world around him disappeared and he was suddenly alone in a grey desert under perpetual night. At first he thought perhaps he was under water, the silence was similar, and the world around him lacked heft. For all his screaming - he had no voice. But he did not long for air or food, nor did the abysmal cold kill him.

He'd thought that Aodh had cursed him to endure one long, unending night.

Somewhere in the middle of that unending night - Archemedeon thought it odd he could see the sun and stars but the moon was gone. In it's place was a whitish and blue disc. Blue like the sea. Blue like the sky. He remembered he had remained defiant until that point, determined to walk the desert until he reached it's end. But then he knew in his gut he was nowhere Muirenn could find him. Aodh had willed him gone from the very earth.

So he grieved. And grieved. He wandered the ceaseless desert and his heart turned to stone. He hoped it would turn to dust.

It was Cyril who later explained that it wasn't just one long night, that it had been years - many years. Cyril drew pictures on paper to demonstrate, and Archemedeon understood somewhat. It was still hard to believe the passage of time could transform an entire world.

Archemedeon quietly opened the door of his room and peaked down the hall. It was empty, save for a strip of light coming from a room at the far end. He could hear Cyril's voice coming from that same direction. He stepped softly into the hallway, creeping towards the sound of Cyril's voice. He listened to the words Cyril was saying, disturbed by the anger behind them.

"What did you expect?'

"How dare you?"

"What am I supposed to do? How?"

"You're not being rational."

"If you think it's that easy…"

"Is that a threat?"

"What have I done? I'll tell you exactly what I've done…I've punched a hole in the damned sky and dragged a god down from heaven..!"

With that Archemedeon watched Cyril slam his little black box angrily onto his desk. Cyril explained that the thin black box was used to talk to people who were far away. It was a magical thing, strong like metal but lighter and encrusted with jewels. He had heard it speaking before and was amazed by the power Cyril wielded.

Cyril looked up and saw Archemedeon standing in the doorway, naked as the day he was born. He stared a little too long before saying, "I've given you so many pants."

"I heard you yelling. I was afraid for you."

Cyril brought two fingers to his temple and began massaging a pulsating bundle of nerves. "I'm quite alright. Thank you for your concern."

The boy didn't move. He continued to watch Cyril through blurry eyes.

Cyril's heart was still pounding. Evony was growing increasingly agitated and he was feeling the stress of her demands. He'd been under pressure to twist Archemedeon into some sort of tool for the dark clans - but had remained unclear as to how to achieve such a result. His method, so far, had been to provide fatherly guidance, molding the boy into a copy of himself. But the Morrigan was an impatient, fiery woman, and wanted an immediate return on her investment. The enormity of the undertaking was lost on her, or simply irrelevant to begin with.

He sighed deeply and motioned Archemedeon to take a seat. Cyril sat next to him, determined to ignore his perfect male body.

"Archemedeon - have you ever done something without thinking it through? Have you ever made a mistake like that?"

The young man could think of a dozen examples, easily. There was the time he mistook a neighbor's goat for his own and killed it. It was after he'd bled it he noticed the spots were different, and he immediately regretted not paying better attention. "Yes I have."

"I've done something like that…" Cyril paused for a moment, hesitating to contemplate what he was about to do. "Archemedeon, there's a lot I haven't told you."

The boy's dark eyes darted around nervously. He was suddenly afraid but didn't know why. "I know...it is because I can't understand much."

Cyril placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. He had come to feel earnest affection for his young pupil. "You are capable of understanding everything around you, my boy, all it will take is time."

Archemedeon smiled warmly. Where would he be without Cyril, he wondered. Cyril, his rescuer. His heart swelled with love for the man who had saved him, fed him and given him a home.

"I want to start by talking to you about who I am. What I am, specifically. Some of the things I'm about to tell you will sound familiar. It has to do with the gods. Your gods."

"You told me the gods were dead. You promised they were dead," Archemedeon responded, unnerved.

"They are," Cyril responded soothingly. "They are all…quite dead. Long dead."

Archemedeon steadied himself, his relief palpable.

"But they had many children, as you know."

"They were killing their children…"

"Yes, which is why Neas and Cian killed _them,_" Cyril placed his hand on the boy's knee without even thinking, and then immediately retracted it. Archemedeon didn't notice.

"So you are saying some children lived."

"Yes. And we have already talked about how a long time has passed since…you lived at home, with your family…"

"Yes…"

"So over these many, many years - the sons and daughters that survived lived lives like everyone else. Like normal people. They married, had children, lived as families do.."

Cyril watched the color drain from Archemedeon's face.

"…_How many gods are there now_?"

"There are no gods, only their descendants. Of which - _I am one_," Cyril paused and carefully studied the young man's face. "_As are you_."

Archemedeon bolted upright. "_That's not true_," he sputtered with urgency.

Cyril turned his face away from Archemedeon's hip, leaning back on the the leather sofa to put some space between himself and it. "It _**is**_ true, although it is true for me in a different way than it's true for you."

The young man stood there - frozen, the knuckles of his clenched fists glowing white.

"We call ourselves Fae. We lack the power of the gods, though we do have some _extra_ abilities that set us apart from ordinary men. There is great….variety…amongst us." He struggled to maintain eye contact, wanting to convey sincerity and avoid panic. He continued, his voice soft and low, "Men do not survive in space, Archemedeon, that is a fact. Aodh kept you alive solely to endure the cruelest of tortures. He kept you alive by giving you some of his essence."

Cyril's eyes wandered over the young man's trembling form. He took Archemedeon's hand in his, a warm glow emanating from his touch.

"Sit, Archemedeon, please. Be calm."

Archemedeon's expression melted gradually, the tension and anxiety fleeing his face.

Cyril, on the other hand, was starved of the pleasures that sustain him and was drained by the exertion. He hunched over, short of breath, seeming more grey than usual, demonstrating a rare exhibit of his age.

"My dear boy - you must forgive the foolish desires of an old man not much longer for this world. I brought you here for selfish reasons - but I have come to see myself in you, and love - true love - can transform a man."

"I know it, Cyril," not quite understanding what he was getting at.

"Dangerous Fae are coming for you, Archemedeon. I can't protect you from them," and with these words Cyril collapsed. Archemedeon shook him, and then put his cheek to Cyril's mouth - and when he was confident he felt the moist heat of breath - he carried Cyril in his arms and put him to bed.

He stood there a moment, in the darkened room of his rescuer, and considered the desperate words he'd uttered. "Fae," he muttered out loud, searching his mind to remember the details told to him.

Archemedeon wandered through the large, mostly empty house wondering what Cyril had meant by _dangerous Fae_. The house guards and attendants he'd come to recognize all took notice of him, but left him to his meandering. Archemedeon wandered to the main door of the mansion and stepped outside, having never seen the grounds from this perspective before. A wide open plain lay before him, and in the distance he could discern a road lined with tall trees. Archemedeon considered Cyril's home a veritable palace, and with his imagination envisioned a vast army covering the surrounding grounds. He longed to return the great service done to him by Cyril, he willed it with every fiber of his being and suddenly - with no hesitation - it was there. Countless shadowy armored men with eyes of glistening smoke stood at the ready.


	23. Parts In Exile

6/30 - Revised for, uh, reasons.

* * *

Cyril awoke to the delicate music of chirping birds and a thin beam of sunlight slicing his master suite in half. At first there was no real sensation of his physical body; he felt as though he were suspended only by clouds, drifting on a thin white plain between dusk and dawn. He felt at peace.

With his mind free to wander, he thought about his first love and how it doomed him to a life filled with internal conflict.

Had he never felt real love - he may have embraced the entitlements his fae-nature awarded him.

All those years ago in the monastery, chained to a wall naked and nearly starved he was adamant that love had transformed him. It was only after his jailor, an older slack-jawed and barrel-chested monk took pity on him that he started to realize that _no one could love him freely_. As this brute of a jailor-man cradled him in his arms and spoon-fed him smuggled broth Cyril felt the heavy dread of truth in his heart. Not unlike a poison plant lures it's prey with bright colors and intoxicating nectar, Cyril was a pleasure parasite.

His presence alone cast a dizzying fog of infatuation, obsession and lust - food for him to gorge himself and grow figuratively fat on. He could entice saints and kings - but he could not inspire true love. The joy and elation he caused in his lovers _did no_t wholly and truly belong to him - but rather, they were more like symptoms of a disease caused by Cyril's venomous presence.

Cyril massaged the beginning of tears from his eyes.

He suddenly remembered the crest he and his shield-brothers later bore; often mistaken for a serpent snapping at its own tail, it was in all actuality a snake with its tail wrapped around its neck. He first drew it in a naval logbook sometime after the first millennia and later took it on as his personal symbol.

Next he thought about the centuries he'd wasted trying to expunge delusions of love from his tattered heart. He went to war. Every war he could find.

He drenched himself in the blood of hundreds in an attempt to master apathy - but found only ecstasy.

Cyril fled the Crusades at the first sign he might be exposed for collusion. For a time he believed in The Order, or _parts_ of it, but his aura encouraged revelry which in turn fed a fountain of deceit. He hated himself for it, and found the ease with which all purpose was abandoned disheartening. However, his escapades throughout the Holy Land brought him considerable wealth and status.

Some time later he wandered to the south of France and landed within the inner circle of a new theology. The time was ripe for theological debate, and someone had proposed that perhaps there were, in fact, two gods. Two gods to correspond to two very different holy books; one a wrathful, vindictive god and the other a god of love and unity. As the first holy book claimed the spiteful god had created every physical thing, every single thing known to man was thus evil. Even mankind was evil. Only the soul was pure, and the soul longed to be reunited with the other god, the god of love. _This belief resonated with Cyril_ and he embraced it and took comfort in it.

Like most things, as this new religion gained momentum there were those who sought to exploit the cause to further their self-interests. It became less about the unity of the all-soul and more about political leverage. Disillusioned and angry, Cyril switched sides and assumed the identity of a papal legate. He advised the abolishment of this and all other fringe groups - with a vengeance.

Unable to contain his self-loathing - his anguish and disappointment and heartbreak tore him apart at the seams. The outlet for his private agony took the shape of Divine Justice, and this is how he found himself a Grand Inquisitor in Spain. There was something deliciously satisfying in forcing the devout to relinquish their beliefs and betray everything they'd ever held on to as real and true. _No one_, it was said at the time, _could escape the spanish inquisition_.

Surrendering fully to his bacchanal nature he made full use of his authority, extracting any and all pleasures from the charged, assuring their silence through condemnation. With succubi and incubi both in his employ - neither man nor woman was safe from the scrutiny of his all-seeing spyglass.

As time went on it was frequently necessary for Cyril to assume a new name and occupy a different office. He wrote his own letters of recommendation, and was always greeted with enthusiasm. Eventually, a scribe came across a portrait done of a previous Inquisitor and had noticed an uncanny resemblance. Cyril could have claimed coincidence or a distant familial relation, but decided he'd grown weary of torture and death. He didn't even bother to procure a nameless corpse this time and instead fled away to Italy.

Nestled in his humble villa he plumbed the depths of his soul, seeking solace in nature and physical labor. He worked his fields alongside hired help, and sought spiritual guidance from the town priest.

_"Padre, I have done terrible things,"_ he uttered in the darkened confession box, hands clasped together.

But wherever Cyril ran away to, his fae-nature followed him like a demon. People were trapped in his magnetic aura like moths to a candle; wide-eyed and grinning they were eager to fulfill his every whim.

When it was disclosed that he and the priest were lovers Cyril packed a bag and left for Rome in the middle of the night; had he stayed until morning he would have been beaten with stones and held face-down in a horse trough 'til drowning, just as Father Alanzo had been.

* * *

"Master Smith!" The door exploded with a shrieking thrall. Cyril jumped inside his skin, startled. "Master Smith - " The thrall's tone was urgent and Cyril assumed a crisis of some sort was rapidly unfolding in another portion of the estate. His worse case scenario involved the Morrigan storming the house with an army of her thugs; if they attempted to seize Archemedeon Cyril figured the consequences would be entirely earned. He was past the point of worrying.

Cyril sat up in bed and patted the mattress next to him.

While the thrall covered his body like a sheet, Cyril mused that he had personally witnessed history repeat itself on several occasions. History is like a river that carves its path down a mountainside. It's not unpredictable; it takes the path of least resistance, and broadens in scope over time. Whatever the Morrigan's intentions involving Archemedeon entailed, Cyril imagined they were short-sighted.

He ran his palm across the thrall's shorn and bristly hair. As he pinned him to the mattress Cyril considered that perhaps he'd gone about things the wrong way; perhaps it was foolish to try and protect Archemedeon - when Archemedeon could quite possibly _be_ the rod of righteousness, the staff of justice - the instrument of change missing from living history. The world need not endure the long and painful path of natural evolution - the power now existed to drag it kicking and screaming into the future.

His muscles tingling with renewed vigor, Cyril felt years had been returned to him. He glanced down at the glistening chest of his eager thrall, appreciating his youth and beauty.

"Master Smith?" the thrall panted.

Cyril withdrew and headed for his en suite. He grabbed a towel and wiped down the back of his neck and ruddy face. Unthinking, he tossed the towel to his bed-mate.

"Master Smith - you need to look outside…"

Cyril cocked an eyebrow and swaggered towards the window. He drew open the shade and was immediately showered in blinding sunlight. He held his hand against the sun, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he began to discern the teeming mass that covered his grounds.

* * *

Tamsin awoke fully clothed, yet again, save for her boots. One was some feet away from the bed, the other in the kitchen. It had obviously fought back and had been flung there in anger.

When she stood her legs were wobbly. She caught herself against a support beam, banging her shoulder.

She walked over to her fridge and pulled it open, grabbing the carton of orange juice and sniffing it. She couldn't tell if it was rancid or she was.

Using the same glass as yesterday, she used the OJ to tint her vodka. A few sips in and her equilibrium started to return, her hands steady and confident. She thought about the Dal, she thought about Dyson. "Fuck Dyson," she announced to the empty room.

Feeling no need to use discretion in her own home, she gave her armpit a sniff and decided the OJ must be okay after all. She finished her drink and pulled off her leather jacket on her way to her shower.

She watched herself undress in the full length mirror. First the holster, then the v-neck tee. She pulled off her black jeans, momentarily hopping on one foot. Naked, she looked at herself and saw only scars and bruises. She was a road map of damage.

She planted one palm against the cool tile for support. Hot water blasted against her neck and chest. She liked to get her body adjusted to the comfort of heat before turning the faucet to cold, as cold as she could bear it. She found this method jolted her body into high gear and abrupt sobriety.

But she lingered a bit today.

Tamsin wasn't one to allow foolish sentiment to sway her mind. She'd learned that on the battlefield. On the battlefield you have the brave and the dead. Only the brave see Valhalla. The dead and dying may be deserving of grief - _but valkyries do not mourn._

Wet hands cupped her hot face before running back over her hair.

She thought about Cyril and all the times she'd found him gutted or maimed but immune from death and valor. In the aftermath of every battle - as fires died and souls fled - she searched and often found him. It wasn't that he was particularly brave or bold, but rather he fought without fear. He chased after death with the ferocity of a wolf, nipping at it's heels, demanding release.

She was young then - and didn't understand the misery that comes from agelessness. It took centuries for her to realise how the ceaseless pendulum of time can grind one down like the north winds transform mountains to dust. Battle after battle, she watched humankind toil away and trudge onwards as their mortal lives afforded no other option. They are capable of surviving gut-wrenching horrors - knowing that some day their suffering will end. For them there is only Life and Death, not Life and More Life.

Tamsin thought about the towns and cities she'd lived in - the palaces and keeps. She thought about her friends and lovers, all come and gone. She'd lost her will, and maybe her ability, to connect with anything a long time ago. This is what Cyril felt, _she knew_.

So she found it curious when her thoughts turned to the human doctor and she felt a pang of jealousy. She exhaled sharply, a 'pfft' cutting through the stream of water. _As if a tight knock-off dress and an over-priced restaurant makes up for anything,_ she thought to herself. She tried to avoid thinking about Bo and Lauren having sex but it was a persistent visual, and with these thoughts came sharper, deeper pangs. She wondered how a succubus could ever have sex with someone and it not be self-serving in some way or another.

It was here her survival instinct kicked in and she plunged the faucet lever to the far side, dousing her body in cold water. Her skin seemed to collectively shriek on terror, curdling under the frigid rainfall. She growled against the painful cold and forced herself to endure it. At least her thoughts were clear again.


	24. All The Things

_Sorry for the delay. It's hard for me to get inside Bo's head._

* * *

Bo laid awake in the half-light of pre-dawn, the hounds of fear and self-doubt nipping at her heels. She watched her lover's slender form gently rise and fall with each slumbering breath, all the while fighting the urge to take her yet again. She'd already done so twice previously; rousing her lover a third time seemed unabashedly greedy, even for a succubus.

Bo flung herself on her back and sighed heavily. She was restless and agitated and desperate for an outlet. Never before had she so deeply craved a call or text from Trick, or Dyson - or _anyone, really_, in need of her services - regardless of the early hour. She checked her phone yet again, holding it a for a few extra moments as if willing it to buzz in her hands.

Nothing.

Silence.

Just silence. And unshakeable stillness.

It was hard for Bo to consider their date-night a success. All of the standard romantic gestures were there - and yet when it came to saying all the things she'd planned to say - Bo found herself at a loss for words. As a substitute she wore a brave face - she smiled and laughed and flirted when appropriate. Lauren was receptive, answering Bo's smiles with smiles of her own. The evening unfolded like carefully constructed theatrics - they said their lines, they played their parts. It was completely and utterly superficial.

"You always hurt the one you love," - that's how Bo intended to begin her grand speech. She hadn't actually given much thought to the rest of the speech, figuring it was the kind of thing that would write itself as she went on. In her imagination, a rapt Lauren listened intently, absorbing every admission of guilt, every proclamation of golden intent, every _everything_. Bo was prepared to lay all of her cards on the table and concede to every charge. She'd been a poor excuse for a girlfriend, a partner. She'd treated her friends poorly - but she'd treated Lauren worst of all.

Bo thought back to The Dawning. That was her turning point. Weeks of build-up and stress and for what? More riddles and fewer clues. For all she'd come to understand about herself - the Fae-universe seemed hell-bent on keeping her perpetually second-guessing what it meant to be Bo Dennis. Bo furrowed her brow and frowned deeply. That was the real issue, and it was something Lauren fixated on early on in their relationship. Bo had blown off Lauren's concerns as insecurities - how could a person not know themselves, trust themselves at their very core?

Bo remembered an afternoon with Lauren many months ago - Lauren held Bo's face in her hands and begged her not to forget her humanity.

"You're crazy," Bo said in response, "I am human."

As she said these words she remembered how she took hold of Lauren's hands and squeezed them urgently.

_"How can I forget who I am?"_

Bo exhaled deeply, realizing that Lauren had seen this coming all along. Bo had thought Lauren was envious in some way, overwhelmed by the constant indelible spotlight that followed her lover around. Maybe it was like dating a superstar? Bo winced as she wished these foolish thoughts away. Lauren understood the glamor and excitement that came from being a part of a secret, unknown world. She understood how it could transform a human woman with no history and a mysterious talent for charm and seduction. Lauren understood how being free from the pain of isolation could transform someone's life completely.

The Dawning revealed as much, challenging Bo's commitment to her human lover. How absolutely fiendish, she thought now, in retrospect, to swap Lauren and Dyson's places. How cruel - to outline the life she _could_ have - as if that life could only exist with other fae. As if there were any reason in this world she couldn't have a perfect life and family in the suburbs _with_ Lauren..

If only she'd said these things over dinner. If only she'd told Lauren everything rattling around in her broken-down, tattered old heart.

'You always hurt the one you love…' was intended to be a huge, sweeping gesture, a declaration of love. Bo had been prepared to accept responsibility for her poor behavior, her detachment, and accept whatever consequences Lauren threw her way. Of course, Bo had imagined the power of her speech and the sincerity in it's delivery would win Lauren over completely, and that the two of them could have a new start.

In her mind it was all perfect, destined to go down without a hitch.

But then she saw Lauren at the Dal.

More specifically, she saw Lauren at the Dal _bathed in a warm orange glow_ with that bitch of a cop. Seeing the two of them like that was a humiliating sucker-punch in the gut.

Bo could see their shared attraction clear as day. What she couldn't tell was whether either woman was aware of the solar flares their sexual energy was throwing around the room; their body language was _no_ indication. As far as Bo could tell, the two women seemed as indifferent towards each other as always. Tamsin curdled like cream left out in the sun whenever Bo was around, and greeted Bo's arrival with her backside. That much was par for the course. And Lauren is hardly known for her poker-face…. Bo wanted to believe their off-the-charts radioactive sex-waves were a matter of opposites attracting, a flight of fancy, something meaningless. Regardless, she was distracted all evening, haunted by what she'd seen and flooded with self-loathing. _I'm too late,_ she thought to herself, _I'm too late. It's too late. I should have done something sooner…_

So, in place of words and grand gestures, the two women made love until Lauren begged Bo to let her sleep and recover. Bo begrudgingly conceded, knowing full-well that sex wasn't a substitute for intimacy although she quietly wished it could be.

Not knowing what else to do with her energy, Bo slid from the bed and started to get dressed. She carefully navigated the piles of discarded clothing from the night before, remembering how she and Lauren had attacked each other with the passion and intensity of starved animals. Now Bo found herself questioning whether any of that passion was real or worse - did it even belong to her? Was her lover _with her_ - but thinking of someone else? The thought triggered a wave of horror in Bo; she was suddenly struck by a pounding inside her skull and a fierce desire to vomit. She buckled over, gasping for air, her shaking hand reaching out for something to support her imbalanced weight.

Once the wave of anxiety passed - Bo retreated to her bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. As she gripped the porcelain walls of her sink she stared at her reflection in the cracked and faded mirror. She wondered about the woman she saw there, staring back. Did she really know herself any better than she did three years ago, before Dyson and Hale dragged her kicking and screaming into this fae-life? She wasn't so sure. Being grounded, having a sense of self and insight into one's nature was reassuring but it was still a struggle. It was work, hard work, and she was constantly having to unlearn what her life on the run had taught her.

Not needing to run meant learning how to stay.

* * *

Bo staggered down the stairs with all the strength and enthusiasm of the walking dead. She was stunned to find Kenzi sprawled across the sofa, boozily snoring. Her face lit up with an affectionate smirk as she carefully tip-toed into the kitchen.

She cautiously gathered all the makings for coffee and was pleased with her ninja-like-stealthy silence - up until her elbow caught the handle of a frying pan left sitting on the counter, knocking it to the tiled floor.

When Bo finally unclenched her teeth and opened her eyes - she found Kenzi standing bolt-upright and teetering.

"Dude," said the pixie.

"I am **so** sorry," Bo muttered in an apologetic whisper, "I am so sorry…I tried to be quiet…"

Kenzi wearily took a seat at their kitchen island. Bo noted that the whites of her eyes were a dizzy pink, making the blue of her irises that much more intense. Bo smiled softly.

"When did you finally roll in?" Bo asked.

"I think it was around two? Three? I had to close the place, you know how it goes."

Bo offered to make extra coffee and Kenzi declined, saying she didn't want to tax her liver with any additional and unnecessary liquids. Bo chuckled and rolled her eyes.

"So you've got hotpants upstairs?" Kenzi asked after a prolonged silence. Flustered, Bo nodded nervously.

Despite being slightly incapacitated, Kenzi could still read her best friend like a cheap romance novel. _"How'd it go?" _she asked with genuine concern.

Bo flung herself around to retrieve the kettle and pour the boiling water into the french press. Kenzi noticed a quiver to Bo's shoulders, and expertly changed the subject.

_"Heeeeey, so_… you guys missed quite a show at the bar, lemme tell ya. Tamsin was loaded. She got into a fight with the D-man."

When Kenzi saw that Bo had steadied herself she assumed her distraction was a success. She resumed her story:

"It wasn't like, you know, a fight-fight, Dyson grabbed her by the arm and _god-damn_, the whole bar was so quiet you could hear a rat piss on cotton."

"What were they fighting about..?" Bo asked in a hushed, careful tone.

"Who knows with those two. I mean, I know the D-man can be as charming as a bag-of-dicks sometimes but Pollyanna _she_ ain't, ya feel me?"

Bo poured herself a cup of coffee and turned to face her bleary-eyed cohort. Her expression was dull and somber.

"Once you left I figured I'd whoop some siren-ass at pool, you know? But as soon as the two of you were out the door Dyson was up in Tamsin's face. He was all beast-mode and snarly and she was ready to go ghost-face-killa on his furry butt. Trick had to toss 'em both out."

_"No!"_ Bo hissed in disbelief.

"Yup. Told 'em both to go the fuck home and sober up. I don't think I've ever seen Dedushka so pissed."

Bo was wide-eyed with surprise, the corners of her mouth making a deep frown. Her eyes travelled around the room as she mulled over some suspicions kicking around in her brain.

"You know what _I_ think," Kenzi said with a dramatic flare, "I think the valkyrie has _feels_ for the D-man, but _he_ only has wolf-eyes for you."

"Oh _really_?" Bo responded snarkily. Hot tears clamored behind her eyes and she struggled to beat them down. Once Bo had regained her composure she sniffled, and met her best friend's gaze defiantly.

Meanwhile, at the top of the stairs, Lauren stood frozen in cold fear.

* * *

Tamsin checked her phone obsessively. Once out of the shower she checked it after every minor accomplishment; pants on - _check phone_. Shirt on - _check the phone_. At no point had she missed a call nor did she have any new messages.

This led her to conclude, completely irrationally, that her peers were avoiding her. Her panic-induced defensiveness typically resulted in a _fuck-all attitude_ - which is how she decided to hop in her truck & head out to Cyril's. It was a pre-emptive strike; in the imagined plans she was secretly being excluded from - her light-fae peers would naturally all converge on Cyril at some point. Tamsin figured she would beat them to it.

When she arrived at the estate hours later - she was shocked to discover a standing army. She parked off the main dirt road between some tall pines and studied the sight through a pair of binoculars. She toyed with the idea sweeping through the horde and clearing a path - just like in her glory days - but with age comes _some_ wisdom. She rang Cyril instead.

"Hey. Your landscapers do a hell of a job. I love what you've done with the place."

At first there was stunned silence.

"_Tamsin?_ Are the others with you?"

"Nope. They're still catching up on their beauty sleep."

"Is the Morrigan with you?"

"_Fuck no._ You know, she and I are not as chummy as everyone seems to think." She was irritated Cyril even asked.

"Come up to the house. I have a situation unfolding."

"I'd love a play-date but there's sorta this _army of the damned_ between me and the house.."

"Archemedeon raised them but didn't give them any commands. Right now they're just...menacing lawn ornaments."

"So I take it the cat's out of the bag?"

"I'm not entirely sure yet, conjuring the army took a lot out of him. He's sleeping like a stone at the moment."

"He's not used to flexing his god-muscle, I take it?" She smiled cockily at her own innuendo.

"Charming. Come up to the house. I'll have some men greet you." With that Cyril ended the call, leaving Tamsin alone with her smirk and smug attitude.


	25. A Life Less Genuine

Tamsin's truck sputtered and coughed up the long driveway to Cyril's stately manor. Her jaw hung open in disbelief as she parked and cautiously slid from the driver's seat.

"_Ho-leeeee shit_…" she breathed aloud. Tamsin immediately covered her mouth and nose as she was struck by the overwhelming stench of death. The air was heavy with dust and the aroma of decay - much like a compost heap or rotting wood. She carefully strode up to one of Archemedeon's soldiers and gazed into the dusty black sockets where human eyes would normally be. Tamsin seemed almost frozen against her will; a curiosity in the pit of her gut held her there, enraptured and lost in studying the empty face. The soldier's parched, spotty skin was stretched like dark leather over petrified and brittle bone. Strings of worn, ancient flesh hung from lanky limbs. She shivered suddenly and involuntarily - as if her own body was rebelling against her. As she backed away she swore she heard the figure draw a breath; her face contorted as her ears zeroed in on a low rustling from deep within withered lungs, like a faint autumn wind blowing through dry leaves.

The detective struggled to compose herself just as she was greeted by two of Cyril's thralls. She was markedly relieved by their company.

They walked through the large, open mansion in complete silence, their echoing footsteps the only sound. When she made eye contact with either thrall she could read panic and dread in their perfectly sculpted faces. There was a palpable sense of doom in the air, thick and dense enough to choke a person with fear.

Down three flights of stairs and at the back of a long, hidden hallway was a fake cellar door that led to a real door that concealed Cyril's panic room. One of the thralls radioed Cyril - and a moment later the heavy door rolled open. The detective lingered in the doorway, inexplicably fearful.

"What the fuck is all this?" she rasped.

Cyril was seated at a desk, an open decanter of brown liquor in front of him. His eyes rose to meet hers. His expression was somber. She felt her heart sink a little at the sight of him.

Tamsin locked eyes with Cyril, making her disgust very clear. She walked up to the desk he was seated at and made herself comfortable.

She looked at his whisky tumbler and said "Pour me something, would you?" When he obliged she sank into her chair, crossed her legs and bounced her heel.

"So.." she began, "Is this the plan? Hang out in your man-cave til shit blows over?"

"It's one option," he said in a prolonged whisky-laden drawl. His eyes settled on his drink and seemed hesitant to leave.

After a long silence Tamsin sat up and leant forward. Her body language was uncharacteristically non-threatening. Cyril was apprehensive.

"Cyril - what the fuck were you thinking?"

He looked at her squarely, almost confused by the simplicity of the question. After contemplating his response he said, "_I had to know_. I just had to know if I was right. I didn't think of the consequences beyond that."

"Okay," she replied, almost sympathetically, "Okay I can understand that. But why involve the Morrigan?"

"Credibility."

"_Seriously_," she said, dripping with sarcasm, "How do you figure she adds credibility to anything?"

"Her title, like it or not, carries weight. And notoriety. And if I'd been successful I would have been famous for...something other than what I'm already famous for," Cyril sighed heavily.

"So was it before or after the Fae-roast at your penthouse that you figured out things were _not _going to go according to plan?"

"That was unfortunate but risk is typically a factor when summoning ancient unknown powers."

"_Unknown powers_," she repeated for emphasis, "That sums it up nicely. And yet...you thought you could use these unknown powers as a bargaining chip?"

Cyril slumped forward, crossing his arms on the wide mahogany desk. "Tamsin, sweetheart, you know how these types of negotiations go; you play one side against the other until you get what you want."

"...without ever intending to deliver on your promises?"

"Frankly I wasn't sure what I'd be able to deliver. My best case scenario involved discovering a set of ancient bones or other artifacts. That way I wouldn't have to make good on anything at all, but I'd still have the fame and glory from my discovery."

After some silence he continued.

"No one was more surprised than I was to find Archemedeon still alive. I mean, in all earnestness, I thought it was possible, and it's what I'd hinted at to my investors, but i didn't …I didn't honestly believe...

"So you see it put me in a very unusual position. On one hand I was thrilled, positively thrilled all of my research had paid off and for the first time in my life I felt genuinely validated. I felt my life had meaning and substance and worth! But on the other hand, I suddenly had these outrageous expectations to fulfill."

"Here's where you lose me," Tamsin said, extending her glass for a refill, "It's not like you can strap Archemedeon to a table and Frankenstein his god-bits into someone else..."

"Well, the whole point of my theory is that Aodh transferred his essence into others willingly. I wondered if it might be possible to convince Archemedeon to do the same. However this theory became a tad more complicated once it was apparent that Archemedeon had to clue what had been done to him."

"So you figured you would con him into giving his powers to Evony?"

"That was my first solution, yes. Humans are pretty naive, I once persuaded a young man into trading his only mule for some 'magic' beans," Cyril chuckled before continuing, " Anyhow, my next thought was what a huge mistake that would be."

"Oh?"

He looked at her, his face stern. "You know as well as I do Evony is impetuous, if not altogether volatile. If she had any real power it would be nothing short of catastrophic. The key to good governance, after all, is ensuring the strings of those in charge are all the same length."

Cyril poured himself another scotch and slid down in his chair. His eyes drifted around the room. Just as Tamsin was about to speak Cyril continued, volunteering information she hadn't asked for.

"I'll tell you something peculiar," he began in a low voice, "My type...is not known for much in the way of empathy. Of course I can only speak for myself, but - empathy is a tool of our craft - a means to dissect and understand our prey so that we may more skillfully extract the food that nurtures us. That fateful night at the penthouse - after the blast - I entered the scorched room with my security team, not knowing what to expect... I found him huddled on the floor, terrified. I took him into my arms and held him - and I felt his suffering and fear as acutely and as real as if it were my own agony...

"And so, since that time, I have struggled with whether or not I have rescued Archemedeon or doomed him. "

Tamsin looked up from the rim of her glass, "How do you mean?" she finally asked.

"Well," Cyril began, but then stopped himself, taking a moment to carefully consider his next words.

"Well - let's consider the few facts we have, and what the most likely outcomes are to be."

Tamsin sharpened her gaze.

"We have a young and broken-hearted human boy, traumatized both by the cruelty of the gods and from losing the love of his life.

"It's been to my great advantage that he lived in the Time Of The Gods, he 'accepts' the concept of _magic_ easily and attributes it to everything around him. He's already forgotten he once spoke a language other than English.

"I've been cautious when educating him on the breadth and depth of the sciences, fearful he may at some point be able to use logic against me. But thanks to me he has a very basic understanding of time - though it is incomprehensible to him just how much time has past since _his day_. This is for the best, I feel. I haven't the will to explain that not only is his lover long dead, she has long since turned to dust. I imagine this fact alone would devastate him. I'm happier to let him believe there's a grave somewhere with her name on it.

"I think, sometimes, about the loves I've had to bury. Sometimes it was easier for me to leave before their final days, as if they could keep on living in memory alone. But for the ones placed into this earth - I prefer knowing they occupy a specific space.

"My apologies, detective. I digress.

"It goes without saying the other glaringly huge advantage is he has no clue what he's capable of; yesterday - Evony made some threats I fear she is likely to make good on. I felt it was imperative to give Archemedeon some understanding of the situation."

_"Oh my god Cyril. What did you do?!"_ her alarm was genuine.

"I did the best I could, given that I had to think quickly."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"I told him he's Fae."

"..The fuck? Why?"

"I figured it was far better than telling him he has all the power of Aodh. Which brings me back to my initial point... Which is - what outcomes do we think are most likely, given what we know."

Tamsin's nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply. Her panicked mind searched for whatever it was he was getting at; Cyril read the shock and horror in Tamsin's distorted expression and sought to calm her anxiety by further explaining himself.

"What sort of Fae can raise an undead army, exactly? Where was I when the gods were handing out those powers?" she blurted.

"Don't be mean, detective. It's counter-productive. Tell me - would you rather have a young and possibly unstable young man with an enormous chip on his shoulder discover he is a glorified magician - or a god with unlimited powers?"

Tamsin bit her lip with restraint.

"Have another drink, dear, it's the only thing that gets me through," he said while pouring.

"The truth is, we have no way of understanding how Archemedeon would react to the truth, and so we simply can't afford to be truthful. If he reacted angrily, he would be utterly justified in his anger - but those who deserve to suffer the brunt of his wrath are long gone. As it stands he is too powerful - and his story too tragic - for us to be truthful. So i told him he's Fae, and that other less-benevolent Fae were threatening to come for us, and what does he do? He raises a bloody army. If that isn't a youthful, knee-jerk reaction to a nebulous threat I don't know what is. We have some insight, at least, to how his mind works.

Tamsin planted her forehead into her palm, exasperated by the gravity of the problem.

_"Why don't you get to the point,"_ she said in a monotone voice.

"Okay, well here's where we currently are: I told him he's Fae because it's only a matter of time before he connects the coincidences that seem to swirl around him and he realizes that the things he imagines tend to come true. Telling him this also feeds his trust in me and above all else he needs to trust one of us, preferably me.

"As to whether or not a conjured army of the damned is a bit much for a garden-variety Fae - I admit I initially thought it best that someone such as yourself come along and clean them up for me - it would be very old-hat for you, no? I could always explain to the poor boy that they were all just a dream of his..."

"But? I feel there's a big '_but'_ coming on.."

"HOWEVER - I've since come to consider that Archemedeon's army might prove a powerful deterrent for Evony and her ilk. "

The detective pointed her forefinger at Cyril: "That is the first sensible thing I've heard you say."

"In the meantime - I was hoping to come up with some sort of plan. The way I see it, the likely outcomes are not good. I told you earlier I was at one point considering using guile to convince Archemedeon to surrender his powers to Evony - one other option I eventually considered was having him gift his powers to me.."

Cyril studied Tamsin closely, searching for a reaction. Meanwhile she held tight to her absolute best poker face.

"My other thought - and it would have to be_ one of you_ to see it through - is to kill him."

The detective's jaw dropped, "_Kill him_.."

"Yes," Cyril responded, squinting hard, "As you can imagine I've given this entire mess a good deal of thought, I've looked at it from every possible angle, and I can't conceive a suitable resolution. You see I have doomed him by bringing him back. There is no way for him to live peaceably amongst Fae or mortal men; surely you see there is no way for any of this to end well."

* * *

"It's just, you know, when you get right down to it, I don't know how to be a person, _a real person_, and live a normal life. I was on the run for so long - always hoping I could find the right _lie_, or right combination of lies, hoping against hope I could live in one place, you know? Settle into one place and live, just *be* - just be _still _for once and let the world turn around me instead of running myself into the ground.

"So I'm selfish and self-centered and probably other self-absorbed-type-stuff _it's all I know! _I only know how to avoid, deflect, defend - and run away! Those are my freakin' _life-skills_! What do I know about relationships? I know how to _not leave prints_ or _turn away _from security cameras in hotel lobbies… I only know how to pretend.

"I've been pretending that everything is normal _now_ - that I have control over my life, and a home, a family - a relationship… Maybe it's sorta true, I have stability - well in a sense - if you consider bugbears and wormrats and warlocks a sign of stability - for the first time in a long time…"

"C'mon Bo…" Kenzi furrowed her brow, a genuine concern mounting.

"That woman upstairs - she is the _best_ thing, the _real_-est thing I've ever had and for whatever crazy reason she _loves me._ Or used to… "

"Bobo….don't you think you're maybe a _teensy-weensy lil' bit_ over-thinking things right now? I mean it was just _one night _and it _sure as shit_ sounded to me like you guys were getting along just fine upstairs…"

"She knew - to her credit _she knew_ - my life is a time-bomb on two legs but she chose to love me just the same. Through everything, too. Through the constant, unrelenting torrent of bullshit my past and my present vomit into her lap - she accepted all of it - and loved me through the very worst of it. But here I am now, just finally fucking _getting it_. All the nights I was just angry for no reason, mad at the world, you know? Wanting to put my fist through a wall - raging over everything I've lost and what I've had to go through - Kenzi I can't tell you how many times she's begged me to tell her what I was feeling and I couldn't. I thought there was nothing to tell. _Life's a bitch and then you die,_ right? Life is hard. Everyone suffers. That's just the way it is, am I right?

"Well, _sorta.."_

"NO! If that's what you want from life - if that's what you expect - then that's what you're going to get! I understand that now! Choosing my own path - that doesn't just mean light-dark-fae-mystical bullshit, it's like - my life! _My whole life!_

"When you and I walked into the Dal I would have sworn I was floating, I was on cloud nine, the wings of a dove! I was in love all over again because, you know, everything just sort of clicked and I made this decision to be hers wholly and truly… But honestly - that's something I should have done a long fucking time ago.

"I mean, seriously, how fucking conceited is that? So I've finally made this grand decision -_ like yay me,_ right? I should have listened to Lauren a long time ago, heard her out…. At least listened to what she had to say, her opinions - _her very educated opinions _on identity and nature versus nurture and whatever the flip else she was always on about. It's not like she was pulling rabbits out of a hat, there's a path the mind follows, like - when there's trauma - you can more or less predict how a person will respond…"

"Like the 12 steps. Is it twelve steps…or nine? Is it a prime number?"

"I think it's twelve. But yeah, just like that."

"No wait, I'm thinking of - **Grief**, I think. Denial, anger, bargaining…"

"Yeah yeah, same thing I think, more or less."

"Okay, gotcha.."

"I pushed her away, Kenzi. I have only myself to blame. I took her love for granted and I don't know if I can ever get it back.

"When we got to the Dal I saw her and Tamsin - just, I don't know, _glowing_ - from just being next to each other. Thing is I can remember when she used to light up that way for me. I swear I could feel my own heart just breaking at that moment."

"Didn't _you_ make out with Tamsin?"

"It wasn't like that. I mean yeah it was sorta like that but I never would have even thought of Tamsin that way if she hadn't planted - well, her face on my face. I mean - there's a line of things I'd sooner kiss than…never mind. You know, you have to look at things from my perspective; sexual energy is like ….pizza rolls or something. The whole world is a freakin' buffet, alright? So the whole point is you can gorge yourself at a buffet, right? Like there's no tomorrow or elastic waistbands from here to eternity... You can say to yourself _'I'm not going to touch the pudding,' _and then you know, you wait a little while or something changes and then you're all like '_so what if I have a little pudding, so what?'_ "

"So that's like, stage three, right? Bargaining?"

"No. No. My point is that sexual energy is my ….food. I may as well tell you to lay off vodka."

"Stop. Stop it," Kenzi holds out her hand in protest, "No words."

"Ok, so you…" the women are distracted by the sudden buzzing of Bo's phone. Bo picks up the device, unlocks it and reads the message.

"Dyson is on his way. We're headed out to that wealthy lunatic's house." When she looks up from her phone her eyes and Kenzi's lock; Bo's expression melts back into worry. "What do I do?"

"You do the job, man. Figure everything else out after."

Bo nods in silent approval, and then her pixie friend inquires - "What are you wearing? You think I should bring my redneck/tweaker wig or something …I dunno, mmmmm, with more panache?"

Bo 's head and shoulders sunk, heavy with worry, "Funny how it works, isn't it? You can't make someone fall in-love with you, but you sure as hell can make them fall out of love. It's hardly fair, you know?"


	26. Bloody Murder

Tamsin's legs were trembling as she stood, her first few steps wobbly and uncoordinated. "I'm not used to whisky for breakfast," she said in response to Cyril's concerned stare.

"Right-o, you prefer vodka with your eggs and toast," he smiled.

But Tamsin wasn't stumbling from drunkenness. A wave of terror struck her at the suggestion of Archemedeon's murder; she felt faint at the thought and struggled against an encroaching wall of nausea.

The pair departed the safe room, through the double-reinforced door and then the fake door - walking in silence down a long, echoing hallway. Halfway up the three flights of stairs Cyril was already sweating; Tamsin caught a faint whiff of stale whisky before she even saw the beads of moisture dotting his forehead. "Have you been feeding?" She tried not to sound legitimately concerned.

"Here and there," he huffed. His eyes were stern and suggested she not inquire further.

When they finally arrived at Archemedeon's room Cyril collapsed into a chair. He pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket & mopped his brow. "Tamsin - meet Archemedeon."

Tamsin approached the bed cautiously but with great curiosity. She studied him in his bed, his body partially covered by a sheet. She was startled by his youth and beauty, noting that he was shockingly handsome with high cheekbones and a delicious mouth.

"Uh, wow," she said under her breath.

She drew her service Sig Sauer from its holster and held it at her side, readying herself. "Don't think," she reminded herself privately, "Just do it. Just do it and it's done. One bullet and all of this is over."

She pointed the gun at his head, the target - his temple - a mere two feet away.

Tamsin tried to paint herself grotesque images of what the future would hold with a living god amongst them; she dreamed up wars and strife and death, whole countries bathed in fire, orphaned children, starving masses. She envisioned the darkest cruelties she was capable of imagining and told herself she could prevent all of it with just one bullet.

One bullet this _beautiful sleeping boy_ would never feel. His painless exit from a cruel life filled with suffering and immense sadness.

The P-229 is known for having a soft-trigger. She thought about this as she floated between possible targets - his temple, between the eyes, his left eye... any one of these points would suffice. And it would only require a gentle squeeze of the forefinger. She wished it would happen accidentally, she wished the gun would choose to go off by itself, sparing her the decision. _It was an accident_, she could then say to herself later, yes - I was pointing the gun at him but I couldn't do it, I couldn't bring myself to do it, I couldn't shoot an unarmed target, I couldn't shoot a sleeping target. I couldn't shoot a young boy..

She was _mid-sigh_ when Cyril's phone went off. There was a loud pop and Tamsin jumped back in sheer horror. Blood started to saturate the pillow and streaks of crimson dripped down the walls.

* * *

Bo dashed upstairs to get her jacket and was greeted by Lauren, fully-dressed and seated on the edge of the bed.

_"Oh!"_ Bo gasped, startled.

"We need to talk," Lauren said plainly.

Bo's body was tense with dread. "Yeah, we do. I know we do. But I'm not sure this is the best time."

Lauren frowned and bowed her head. _There's always something,_ she thought to herself, _always something making her wait to say the things that needed to be said_.

Bo watched her lover carefully, not knowing what was churning internally but she suspected the moment was pivotal. She cleared a lump in her throat, and summoned all available bravery to ask "Did you sleep with her?"

_"No,"_ Lauren answered, some relief to her voice.

Bo exhaled heavily, a deep gasp as if she'd just been rescued from drowning.

She dropped herself down on the bed next to Lauren, "I am SO glad to hear that..."

"But I may have feelings for her Bo, I don't know. I may be projecting..." Tears started to swell in Lauren's eyes. Bo may have been mortified to hear her lover may have feeling for someone else - but nothing could ever distract her from those tears. Bo instinctively cupped Lauren's face in her hands.

"Do you still have feelings for me?"

"Yes!" Lauren sobbed.

"Then we're still okay. We can figure this out. But first we have to save the world."

* * *

Tamsin backed away from the blood-spattered body.

_"Fucking hell!"_ She spun around to face Cyril who was struggling to stifle his phone.

Finally, when the same three repeating bars of John Philip Sousa's "Thunderer" had stopped, she screeched at him _"Oh my god, Cyril, oh god!"_

Cyril quivered in his chair and nervously adjusted his glasses. He was deeply unnerved by the sprinkles of blood across the detective's face and white shirt.

Tamsin holstered her weapon and held her face in her hands. _"Oh my god. I can't believe this. I can't fucking believe this. I shot a kid. In bed. Asleep in bed. Oh god."_

Cyril reached for a nearby wastebin and emptied the entirely liquid contents of his stomach into it.

_"I need a mother-fucking drink. In fact i think i need the god-damned bottle._

_"And what kind of fucking sicko has John Philip Sousa as their ringtone?! Are you out of your mind?"_

Cyril looked up from his bucket, a sour, sickly expression on his face. His eyes fluttered between the detective and the ghastly scene behind her. With a shaking hand he pushed his glasses back up his nose.

"I was just about to tell you I couldn't do it. I was just gonna tell you..." The centuries of Tamsin's life sped through her mind - she thought about all of the war and brutality she'd personally witnessed, as well as the wars and brutal acts she'd been personally responsible for. But this wasn't war, she told herself, _this was murder._

As her mind drifted, her consciousness seemed to almost leave her body, and she found herself contemplating the handful of times she'd killed outside of battle. When she worked as a mercenary she hunted down light and dark Fae alike. Those times could have been considered murder, too - except that every one of those men were rotten to the core, and deserved punishment far worse than the death she gave them.

The detective found herself incapable of rationalizing what had happened. When she would remind herself it was an accident, her gut would answer that an officer never points their gun at a target unless he intends to shoot. When she approached from the angle of acting in the interest of the greater good - of preventing atrocities before they happen - her conscience howled back that she'd acted on a presumption of guilt.

Her next thought was of Lauren, the human doctor who'd taken a vow to preserve life, and she felt her heart sink into her gut when she considered that this act was beyond forgiveness and no doubt beyond anything the doctor could ever possibly accept. Lauren Lewis would never want anything to do with a murderer.

The depth of Tamsin's sadness in that moment was immeasurable.

Broken, she mumbled through tears, _"What have I done, Cyril..?"_

Again Cyril's eyes floated between Tamsin and the bloody mattress behind her. He held her gaze for a moment before switching and this time - she watched his face contort and his eyes grow wide. She hesitatingly looked over shoulder, not wanting to acknowledge the crime she'd committed.

Her heart skipped a beat, seeing the boy-god sitting upright in his bed, confused by the sight of blood on his sheets. The detective stood there, frozen like a deer, watching the wound in his temple gradually swallow itself until it finally spit out a few scraps of lead and closed completely.

Tamsin quickly turned around, her jaw hanging open.

Archemedeon fidgeted in his lap to find the mysterious metal ball that had fallen from his hair; he held it between his thumb and forefinger and studied it. He sniffed it, then tasted it, and unable to solve the puzzle of its origin, he set it down on the nightstand.

Archemedeon looked at Cyril and then at Tamsin. He titled his head a bit as he studied her, captivated by the valkyrie's striking features.

"You have gold hair!" He said with an excitement typically reserved for the very young. His smile was wide and beaming.

* * *

"**HE HUNG UP ON ME**," Evony snarled to her entourage. Her eyes were big and full of rage. Her circle of hired goons all took a few steps back as she swung sporadically at the air, wanting to hit something or throw something she looked at the phone in her hand and slid it into her overcoat pocket. "SOMEONE GIVE ME A PHONE!"

A couple goons looked at each other, each wanting the other to volunteer.

"NOW!"

A bald-headed man with shoulders that started at his earlobes handed over his smartphone which the Morrigan promptly threw as far as she could manage, "YAAAARGH!"

Her limo and two accompanying vehicles were parked at the far end of the dirt road leading to Cyril's property. Like Tamsin, they'd been deterred at the sight of the army of undead surrounding the mansion.

"There," she said, dusting her self off and patting her curls, "I feel much better.

"Now then - which one of you is going to hustle your big bad self down there and bring me my property?"

The group of men exchanged glances.

Evony dug her tongue into one of her molars and looked around the group. Her bony figure swayed back and forth, expectantly. After being met with nothing but silence she screamed at no one in particular, "What's the problem, ladies?!"

Her bodyguard sheepishly approached her, and suggested they were outmatched; "Ma'am I humbly suggest we head back to HQ for now, we need a plan, there isn't much the… well, ten of us if you count me and the driver can do, really.."

"I AM NOT LEAVING UNTIL I GET WHAT I CAME FOR," She growled through her teeth. Her bodyguard stepped back, thinking she looked hot enough to fry an egg on.

As the hours rolled by the group of men milled about, baking in the midday sun while the Morrigan sat in her refrigerated limo. Some of the men had abandoned their sports coats and rolled up their shirt sleeves, meandering about idly while others tossed stones into the surrounding wilderness. Behind tinted glass Evony was grinding her teeth, furious that she'd been outmatched by on old pervert and humiliated in front of her underlings. She entertained fantasies of burning the mansion and everything in it to the ground; "_End this insult the way it began,_" she said under her breath.

Her fantasy was interrupted by a sudden commotion outside; her goons started to gather around her vehicle, grunting and pointing down the dirt road. Evony turned over in the supple leather seat, kneeling and peering out the rear window. On the horizon she saw a tall cloud of dust and car headed in their direction.


End file.
